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FLAMES OF FAITH 







FLAMES OF FAITH 

A Novel 


BY 

SAMUEL HARDEN CHURCH 


/ 


AUTHOR OF “OLIVER CROMWELL: A HISTORY,” 
“THE AMERICAN VERDICT ON THE WAR,” ETC. 



BONI and LIVERIGHT 

Publishers :: :: New York 



Copyright, 1924., by 
Bon 1 & Liveright, Inc. 


Printed in the United States of America 


APR -4 1924 J 

©Cl A 7 78694 - 

Vv<? *y 



AUTHOR’S NOTE 

My reasons jot narrating the moving adven¬ 
tures of John Partridge will be so obvious to 
the reader in view of what is happening in 
this country and in the world at large today, 
that 1 shall make no attempt to state them 
here. 


S. H. C. 



FLAMES OF FAITH 










♦ 





FLAMES OF FAITH 


CHAPTER I 

Mazie sprang higher up on the rocks and looked down full 
of teasing laughter upon John Partridge. 

“You can’t catch me now!” 

“Come down! Come down—Mazie!” he cried. “You will 
fall into the sea!” 

The waves were splashing in such tumults that she could 
scarcely hear his words. 

“Mazie—don’t move!” he shouted, as he picked his way 
up the steep rock. 

He had nearly reached her side when he beheld in front 
of her a cleft in the rock—a chasm—presenting a three-foot 
space to the rock beyond. 

“Don’t try it!” he cried. “You will fall into the sea and 
kill yourself!” 

His heart stood still, for as his hand reached out to stop 
her, she leaped into the air and landed safely on the other 
side. Making sure of his footing, he sprang after her and 
caught her in his arms. 

“Why did you do a thing like that?” he demanded, holding 
her fast. “You scared me out of a year’s growth. A slip of 
your foot and down there-” 

He pointed to the sea. 

“I’m all right,” she shouted, laughing into his face. 

The uproar of the waves made it impossible for them to 
sustain their talk, and she now placed her hand in his in 

9 



10 FLAMES OF FAITH 

docile fashion and permitted him to lead her down the other 
side of the rock-ribbed shore, and toward the center of the 
island, where they at last found a silent solitude. Fatigued 
from the labor of climbing the jutting bulwark which nature 
had placed against the sea, they were glad to sit down amidst 
the glorious verdure of the early summer and laugh over the 
adventures of the day. 

“Gee! It's some picnic!" said the girl. “If my mother 
finds out that I came over to this island alone with you—I'll 
get Hell!" 

“Mazie!" he cried. “You must not say that!" 

“Oh—that’s because you’re goin’ to be a preacher," she 
taunted. “I’ve been brought up on words like them. You 
ought to hear my father and mother shoot out words like 
that when they are fighting. Say—they’re scrappers for fair! 

“What does your father do, Mazie?" 

“Catches fish—sometimes—just sometimes. Mostly he don’t 
do nothing. He has a boat and he goes out with the rest 
of the fishermen whenever Mom can make him work. That s 
seldom." 

“How old are you, Mazie?" 

“How old do you think? Don’t make me too old now, 
or-" 

“Oh—nineteen.” 

“If you’d ’a said twenty-five I’d ’a slapped your face," she 
laughed. “Well—I’m older than that. I’m twenty-two—just. 
How old are you?” 

“I’m twenty-five.” 

“Oh—the mama’s baby!" 

“Did you ever go to school?" he asked, after they had 
laughed at her taunt. 

“Don’t I look like I know everything? Well, I went to 
school about three years, and they learned me everything in the 
books. Then I went to work in the store for Old Skinflint— 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


11 


where you found me yesterday when I sold you that sweater.” 
And she pointed to the garment under his coat. 

“And I liked you so well that—that we came on the excur¬ 
sion together today.” 

“What did you like about me?” she asked, peering into his 
eyes. 

“Oh—I suppose it is because you are pretty—and you 
laugh so much. I thought it would be jolly for us to spend 
this holiday together.” 

Mazie Schilcraft was certainly a very pretty girl, with her 
dark hair and brown eyes, and the rich color in her cheeks. 
But it was physical beauty only, for there seemed to be very 
little in her personality beyond the youthful charm of good 
looks. 

“We’ve had good fun—and the eats was fine,” she said. 

“Yes—we’ve had good fun,” he assented. 

“But why are you going to the—what-do-you-call it?” 

“The theological school?” he prompted. 

“Yes.” 

“That’s my life work. I’m going to be a preacher.” 

“What’s the good of that?” 

“Well, Mazie—I suppose I’m going to be a preacher so 
there won’t be so much of that thing in the world that you 
spoke of a minute ago—so much Hell!” 

“You can’t do nothing to stop it—what shall I call you?— 
I’ve been saying—you—all day.” 

“Call me John, won’t you?” 

“Hello, John!” 

They both laughed. 

“That’s right, Mazie. Perhaps I can’t stop it, but it’s worth 
trying.” 

“You’ll change your mind.” 

“Mazie—have you a sweetheart?” 

“You’re getting fresh, ain’t you?” 


12 FLAMES OF FAITH 

“I don’t mean to be fresh—but I just thought I’d like 
to know.” 

“Well—there’s Jim Larkin, I suppose.” 

“Who’s he?” 

“A fisherman.” 

“You like him?” 

She was quieter now. 

“Oh, yes. He’s around the house all the time—except when 
he’s out with the boats.” 

“He—he’s a good sort of a man?” ventured Partridge. 

“No—he’s just like Dad—drinks like him, loafs like him, 
swears like him.” 

“And you are going to marry such a man?” 

“I suppose so—or else stay in the store all my life and 
give the money to my folks.” 

“You are taking a risk, Mazie. How about your happi¬ 
ness?” 

“Well, I gotta get married some day, ain’t I?” 

“But why Jim Larkin? You can meet other people in the 
store.” 

“Only the guys from the theological school when they come 
to town—like you did yesterday—and a few nuts that live 
there. But the guys don’t ask you, and nobody wants the 
nuts.” 

“Where do you live?—why didn’t you let me come to your 
house for you this morning?” 

“I didn’t want you to see our house—that’s why I met 
you at the wharf. And my folks wouldn’t ’a had any use 
for you, either.” 

“You live near the store?” 

“A mile away—by the sea. I walk there and back every 
day.” 

“A cottage by the sea,” he mused. 

“Some cottage—I’ll tell the world!” she laughed. Then, in 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


13 


a bitter tone—“No—it ain’t no cottage. It’s a hut. An up¬ 
stairs room. That’s mine. A downstairs room, where they 
sleep, and where we all three eat—Jim, too, when he’s there.” 

“Where does Jim sleep?” 

“Look here!” she shouted, angrily. “I’ve a good notion to 
slap your face! You’re getting fresh again.” 

Partridge could have bitten off his tongue. 

“I beg your pardon, Mazie,” he implored. “I really meant 
nothing but to ask where his home is. Please don’t think 
I could have an evil thought about you. You will forgive me, 
won’t you?” 

She laughed again, and took his hand. 

“You’re a nice kid,” she said. “Jim sleeps on his boat.” 

Then, looking out to sea, she sprang up in a great fright 
and cried out: 

“My God—what’s that?” 

“It’s the boat!” cried Partridge. “They’ve gone off and 
left us!” 

It was true. The young couple had not observed the pass¬ 
ing day nor the setting sun, nor had they, amidst the noise of 
the waves, heard the steamer’s whistle from the distant main¬ 
land. They ran toward the shore and waved—he his hat 
and she her scarf. Partridge even cried out loud hal-loas! 
But any noise that he could make was futile against the roar 
of the sea. 

When they saw that the boat had gone, and after it had 
disappeared behind the island, Mazie burst into tears. She 
sobbed and cried aloud. 

“Ain’t this Hell to pay!” she shrieked. 

“Don’t break your heart over it, Mazie,” he said, taking 
her hand and striving to comfort her. “We’ll get in our 
little boat and row back to the shore and see what we can 
do. Come on, before it gets too dark.” 

“Oh, what shall we do? What shall we do?” she cried. 


14 FLAMES OF FAITH 

He led her to the other side of the island, and they got into 
their boat and started for the dock a half-mile away. When 
they reached the mainland it was quite dark, and there was no 
one in sight except the boatman who was waiting to be paid 
for the hire of his little craft. 

“We’ve missed the steamer,” said Partridge, giving him the 

money. . „ 

“They whistled for you and waited ten minutes over time, 

said the man. 

“Is there any chance of another boat?” 

“No, there won’t be another boat stop here until tomorrow. ’ 
“How far is it to a railroad?” 

“Pelham Junction—full ten miles.” 

“Is there an automobile in the village that we could hire?” 
“There’s one—the parson—he’s the Rev. Silas Thornburg 
has one. But the bridge over the creek is washed out and 
you couldn’t get across tonight to save your lives.” 

“Is there a telegraph or telephone station here?” 

“None nearer than Pelham Junction.” 

“Ten miles?” 

“Ten miles.” And the boatman added, “You’re in the 
country here, you know. We have less than two hundred 
people here.” 

“We are surely in the country,” said Partridge. And then: 
“But what are we to do?” 

“There’s a little hotel here. You’ll have to stay there all 
night. It’s right over there.” And pointing to it, the boatman 
departed, going home for his supper. 

Mazie, who had listened to this conversation with anxious 
ears, walked to the edge of the dock, sat down on a post, 
and wailed aloud. 

“I’ll lose my job in the store,” she cried, “and Dad will 
beat the life out of me. Oh, oh, oh! I wish I’d never saw 
you.” 


FLAMES OF FAITH 15 

“Mazie,” protested Partridge. “I’m awfully sorry. I’ve 
been utterly stupid to get you into such a situation. I should 
have watched the time. Suppose I leave you at the hotel 
over night while I go to that boatman and get him to keep 
me at his house until morning ?” 

“My folks would never believe it, and Old Skinflint would 
discharge me,” she sobbed. 

He sat down beside her on another post. 

“We will make the arrangement I have suggested,” he said. 
“I will go to the house of the minister—they have a church 
here. I will beg him to take care of you, while I put up at 
the hotel. We will get a letter from him certifying to the 
facts, and when we get home tomorrow I will take that letter 
to the store, and then go myself to your father and mother and 
show it to them.” 

She stopped crying and said to him with a stolid com¬ 
posure: 

“Dad would throw you into the sea—so would Jim! And 
as for Old Skinflint—he’s a good Christian, and he will fire 
any girl when he thinks she has gone wrong.” 


CHAPTER II 


John and Mazie sat on the dock in silence for half-an-hour 
while the night grew blacker. At last they could not see each 
other. During all that time Partridge was thinking the matter 
over from every possible angle. He began slowly to realize 
how easily a very insignificant and harmless incident can 
assume such importance as to change the whole current of life. 

He had met Mazie Schilcraft yesterday for the first time. 
During the four years of his study at the theological seminary, 
which was five miles away from Radmoor where she lived, he 
had never before been in Old Skinflint’s store. He had been 
studying with consecrated diligence for his graduation, now 
but a few weeks away. Some of his college chums had pro¬ 
posed that they take a day off and join the steamboat excur¬ 
sion to Bass Rock, and he had agreed to join the party. 
Coming to town to purchase his tickets, he saw the sweater 
in Old Skinflint’s window, and went inside to buy it. Mazie 
waited on him and by her vivacity and winning smile so at¬ 
tracted him that when she boldly asked him to take her with 
him he gladly agreed to do so. 

“Why do you want to go?” he asked, in pleasant anticipa¬ 
tion of a compliment. 

“It will make Jim Larkin jealous,” she said. 

He suggested calling for her at her home, but she made an 
Excuse, and promised to meet him at the wharf. She was 
there the next morning. Her high spirits made her a good 
companion for a day’s outing, and he found himself fascinated 
by a certain playfulness and charm which manifested them- 

16 


FLAMES OF FAITH 17 

selves in spite of her rude and crude speech which indicated 
her upbringing. 

But fate had caught them in a trap. Here was an ignorant 
but seemingly honest girl who, through his thoughtless indis¬ 
cretion, was in a predicament which was going to bring diffi¬ 
culties and embarrassment upon her. Both at her home 
and at the store it seemed clear that she would be accused; 
and he himself would not be free from blame—perhaps sus¬ 
picion—when he returned to his school. It was even possible 
that his absence under such circumstances might result in his 
expulsion from the seminary, and, after that, his exclusion 
from the Christian pulpit. In any event there was misery 
enough ahead for both of them, and the half-hour in which 
he turned these considerations over m his mind was a period 
fraught with tragic conclusions. If he now spoke from the 
spirit of romance rather than from the depths of wisdom, it 
was youth—and the honesty of an unsullied youth—which 
prompted his words. 

He reached over and took her hand in his. 

“Mazie,” he said, “I am a poor student studying for the min¬ 
istry of Jesus Christ. I haven’t any money to keep you on— 
my father is dead, my mother is without resources, my home 
church is paying my college expenses—but that doesn’t matter 
in a fix like this. I have never thought of marriage. But 
now—I want to marry you. Will you become my wife?” 

She pressed his hand convulsively. 

“When?” she asked. 

“Now—tonight.” 

“I’m afraid,” she cried. “I don’t know what to say—I don’t 
know what to do.” 

“Then do what I have asked you.” 

“I can’t say, yes. I can’t say, no.” 

“Then I will decide. It is yes.” 

She was too greatly agitated to make a further reply. At 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


18 

that moment they heard a step on the dock. Turning their 
heads, they made out the figure of the boatman bringing his 
lamps to set up on the dock. Rising and still holding Mazie 
by the hand, Partridge spoke to him. 

“Where does the minister live?” he asked. 

“I’ll show you. Do you want to go there?” 

“Yes, we want to get married.” 

The boatman adjusted the two lamps, then, still holding his 
lantern, he lighted the way ahead of them. 

“Watch your step across the street over these stones,” he 
said. “There’s a lot of mud after the rains. Here we are. 
This is Mr. Thornburg’s house.” 

The boatman’s knock brought the minister to the door—a 
kindly, gray-haired man—who immediately recognized his 
neighbor. 

“Good evening, Mr. Fleming,” he said. “You have friends 
with you. Won’t you all come in?” 

Partridge turned to the boatman. 

“We want you for a witness, Mr. Fleming,” he said. And 
then to the minister, “Mr. Thornburg, this lady and I desire 
to be married. Will you perform the ceremony?” 

“Come in, come in,” said the minister, cordially. He intro¬ 
duced them to his wife, who gave them a kindly welcome. 
Partridge told their names and explained briefly the incidents 
which had brought them there. 

“You are a man of honor, Mr. Partridge,” exclaimed the 
minister, “and I am proud to know you. I am sure you are 
doing the right thing.” 

In the presence of his wife and the boatman he then married 
them, Partridge making the responses in a resolute voice, while 
Mazie repeated them with evident reluctance and only after 
much prompting. At last the minister declared them to be 
man and wife. “And whom God hath joined together,” quoted 
he, “let not man put asunder.” He then uttered a prayer, and 


FLAMES OF FAITH 19 

feelingly besought the Almighty to bestow the richest blessings 
of Heaven upon this married pair. 

Partridge expressed his thanks and paid a small fee, and 
the boatman then conducted them to the hotel, where the young 
bridegroom registered their names, and they were assigned to 
a room. Almost in silence they partook of a frugal supper, 
after which the proprietor led them upstairs. 

When they were alone the young student took his wife in 
his arms and kissed her. Her laughter and gay spirits had 
deserted her, and she was very white and very quiet. 

“I didn’t want to marry you,” she said. “You forced me 
into it.” 

He was deeply hurt. 

“I thought it was the only way, Mazie,” he said. 

“Oh, I know you,” she retorted. 

“You know me?” 

“Now—when it’s too late—I’ve been thinking it over.” 

“And what are your thoughts?” 

“You done it to save yourself.” 

“To save us both,” he answered. “If you feel that way, 
Mazie, go to bed—and go to sleep.” 

“I wish I could undo it all,” she sobbed. 

He closed the door and walked downstairs. The inn¬ 
keeper was just going off to bed. 

“If you don’t mind I will sit here for a while,” said Partridge. 

“All right. When you are through with the candle, blow it 
out, won’t you? Good night.” Then, as he reached the door, 
he turned and said, “Funny!” and was gone. 

Partridge threw himself down on an old couch resolved to 
remain there for the night, and blew out the candle. Ten 
o’clock passed, then eleven, and then twelve. He had not 
closed his eyes. At last he stood up and paced the floor for 
another half-hour. He was thinking the matter out. Should 
he regard this marriage as an accident which was to be treated 


20 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

as a formality and to be dissolved later by the courts? The 
whole training of his life was opposed to such a view. Mar¬ 
riage was a divine institution, to endure until death broke 
the union. “Whom God hath joined together let not man put 
asunder.” These were the words of the Scriptures. But had 
God really joined them together? More than once he asked 
himself that question. And if God had not joined them to¬ 
gether would it not be right to break this hasty and 
ill-considered marriage? He rejected his own doubts. For 
good or evil fortune, Mazie was his wife. 

Lighting the candle again, he started up the stairs and 
entered the room. The utter darkness of the apartment was 
scarcely broken by the flame of the candle, which he now put 
down on the table near the open window. Kneeling, he gave 
himself up for some moments to prayer. Then, after quietly 
preparing himself for sleep he stood near the window listening 
to the roar of the sea as it broke upon the rocks. Turning 
then toward the bed, he asked in a gentle voice: 

“Mazie—are you awake?” 

“Yes,” she answered. “I ain't been asleep.” 


CHAPTER III 


It was noon the next day when Partridge and his wife got 
off the boat at the Radmoor wharf. During the voyage down 
the coast he had tried to create an atmosphere of happiness, 
had attempted to play the lover, had spoken tenderly of their 
new relations to each other, had endeavored to stir in the girl’s 
heart a wife’s affection and trust, but every effort had miserably 
failed. Mazie repulsed his advances, kept herself in a sullen 
silence, and showed no radiance of joy in the new dignity 
which had been bestowed upon her. 

“You had better go back to your college and let me fight it 
out with my people,” she said, as they walked down the 
gangway. 

“No, Mazie, I won’t do it,” he answered. “You are my 
wife, sacredly bound to me in holy matrimony. If there is 
any fighting to be done I am the one to do it. But who will 
fight us? We are honorably married, and there’s an end 
to it.” 

She gave his words another meaning. 

“Yes, there’s an end to it,” she repeated. 

In silence they walked down the road to her home. It was 
indeed, as she had described it, a squalid cottage by ‘che sea— 
a litter of dirt and refuse everywhere, with every evidence of 
idle neglect. 

Mazie pushed the door open and they entered the room. 
Two men and a woman were seated there, the men smoking, 
while the woman peeled potatoes. The elder of the two men, 
the girl’s father, Bill Schilcraft, stooped with years, was gray- 

21 


22 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


haired and bearded, while the younger one, Jim Larkin, stal¬ 
wart in the strength of youth, was clean shaven, but clean in 
no other way. Both wore the garb of fishermen—woolen shirts, 
trousers and belts, boots, and nothing else. The woman, Meg 
Schilcraft, was dressed in a gown of humble and ancient 
fashion. 

Mazie walked into the middle of the room, while Partridge 
stood near the door waiting the right moment to declare 
himself. 

“Well, where the Hell have you been all night—eh, you 
dirty strumpet, where have you been?” yelled the father, 
rising from his chair. 

“Yes—tell us that now?” demanded the mother, looking up 
from her potatoes. 

“What mess have you been making for yourself?” cried 
Jim Larkin, rising and advancing a step toward her. 

“You’ve kept us awake all night with your dirty work,” 
continued the old man. “Old Skinflint was here to ask about 
you, and he’s only waitin’ to get his eyes on you to throw you 
out-of-doors. Your job’s gone. Look here—now!—where 
have you been?” 

“And who is this guy that you’ve brung here?” demanded 
Jim. “What’s he got to do with it? He’s it, I guess!” And 
then, turning toward Partridge, he cried, in a rage: 

“What have you been leading this girl into, you”—and he 
uttered a profane epithet—the vilest in the vocabulary of 
rude men. 

Mazie flung the phrase back at him without wincing. 

“You are that yourself!” she cried. “Shut your mouth, 
Jim Larkin. It’s none of your business, anyhow.” 

“Like Hell it ain’t my business!” cried Jim. 

“Go on—out with it! ” said Partridge quietly, stepping nearer 
to the excited group. “Mazie went with me yesterday on the 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


23 


steamboat excursion to Bass Rock. We rowed over to an 
island near there and came back too late to catch the boat on 
the return trip. There was no way to get home, or send you 
word—we had to stay there all nighjt—and so we were 
married.” 

Mazie stood in silence. 

“You were married?” repeated the mother incredulously. 

“Like Hell you were married! ” yelled the father. “Who says 
so—-where’s the proof?” 

“Married!” cried Jim Larkin. “Mazie—you wasn’t mar¬ 
ried? He’s a liar, ain’t he—ain’t he, girl?” 

“We were married—last night,” said the girl. 

“What—you wuz married to this guy, Mazie—you, married 
to him?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, I’ll show him whose girl you are!” shouted Jim, 
raising his fist and advancing toward Partridge. 

Mazie threw herself between the two men, and caught the 
infuriated fisherman by the arm. 

“Now you set down, Jim, and shut your big mouth,” she 
cried. “It’s true—yes, all of you—it’s true. Listen here. We 
missed the boat, as he says. We knowed what you’d think— 
just what you said when we came in the door. We knowed 
you’d think that! We knowed Old Skinflint would think the 
same thing—he’s been here and said so. We knowed what the 
town would think—they’re all talking about it now—oh, 
they’re the rotten lot! And there was nothing else for us to 
do—so he took me to the preacher’s house—the Rev. Thorn¬ 
burg—and he did the job. That’s all there is to it.” 

“Married! That gets me!” cried the old man. 

“You might tell us the gent’s name,” said the mother. 

“His name is John Partridge,” said Mazie, “from the divinity 
school, and he’s going to be a preacher.” 


24 FLAMES OF FAITH 

“A Hell of a name—Partridge—and a Hell of a job!” cried 
Bill. 

“What about me—Mazie, what about me?” demanded Lar¬ 
kin, in a broken voice. 

“I’m sorry, Jim, I’m sorry,” she answered. “I didn’t want 
to do it, but it was all so sudden-like. The disgrace and the 
scandal looked so. bad—it was just what you thought about 
us—you said so the minute we got home—and you never would 
have believed me—you never would have took my word that 
I didn’t go wrong—he asked me to marry him, and I couldn’t 
do anything else—now could I, Jim?” 

“I would have believed you, Mazie,” he answered in a plead¬ 
ing sort of way, “I would have believed you! And here I’ve 
been waiting for you to give up your job and marry me—all 
these years!” 

“Well, I couldn’t give up my job,” she said, with a show of 
spirit, “because you loaf around here nearly all your time and 
you couldn’t take care of me.” 

“It’s a lie you’re speakin’!” he retorted. “I could take care 
of you as good as him.” 

“That’s neither here nor there now,” she said, with an air 
of finality. 

Jim turned on Partridge again. 

“Why did you come among us folks?” he demanded. “Why 
didn’t you stay in your own class? You don’t belong with 
people like us, anyhow.” 

“I have told you how it happened,” answered Partridge 
quietly. 

“Well, what are you goin’ to do with her?” demanded the 
father. 

“I am going to take her to my mother’s house, at Renshaw, 
inside of a month—as soon as I graduate,” replied the young 
man. 

“And leave us without her wages?” shouted Meg. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


25 


“I am afraid that will be necessary/’ he answered. 

“Well, I just guess not,” said the old man, doggedly. “Why, 
how are we to live, Mazie, if you quit Old Skinflint?” 

“You said he’s goin’ to fire me,” replied the girl. 

“Not when you tell him this—he won’t,” pleaded her 
father. 

“Well, I am goin’ to stay here until—he”—pointing to 
Partridge—“gets done at the school. After that I can’t say.” 

“No, Mazie,” said Partridge, in a quiet but firm tone. “I 
cannot consent to that. I cannot leave you here. I will tell 
them at the college what has taken place. They will let me 
arrange for you to stay at one of the professors’ houses for a 
few weeks, until I graduate, and then we shall go to my own 
home.” 

“I can’t do it,” said Mazie, hanging her head. “Jim’s 
right. I don’t belong in your class. I knowed that all the 
time.” 

It hurt him that she did not once speak his name. 

“I don’t belong with people like that. I shall stay here 
until you get through. Then—I don’t know.” 

“But Mazie—you are my wife!” 

“I’ll stay here,” she repeated. 

“Young feller—that’s about enough of you!” cried the old 
man, fearful that the girl might change her mind. “You’d 
better git out!” 

“Won’t you come with me, Mazie?” pleaded Partridge. 
“Mazie-” 

“No—you see I can’t.” 

“But let me go with you to set it right at the store—with 
Old Skinflint.” 

“No—I will fix it with him.” 

“You won’t come?” 

“No.” 

“And you wish me to go?” 



26 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


There was a pause, and she replied: 

“Yes.” 

“You will let me come to see you tomorrow—every day?” 

“No—not till you have finished.” 

He attempted to seize her hand. 

“Mazie—we are husband and wife—you belong to me—you 
know, oh, you know what I mean! I can’t give you up—I 
can’t leave you here!” 

She drew her hands back and looked him full in the eyes. 

“I’ve said my say. I stay here!” she answered. 

He looked from one to the other in a bewildered way, and 
gazed upon her like one in a trance, and then slowly walked 
away and out of the house. 


CHAPTER IV 


Partridge walked aimlessly up and down the streets of 
Radmoor for an hour, and then suddenly found himself in 
front of Old Skinflint’s store. Without hesitation he entered 
the door, and seeing the proprietor unoccupied behind the 
front counter, he requested a private interview. 

No one who had learned to know Old Skinflint would ever 
say that such a name would justly fit him. He was enormously 
tall and enormously thin, with a head bereft of hair, an open 
face, lighted by a kindly heart, and a pair of spectacles on the 
end of his nose, which never seemed to have any relation to 
his eyes. 

“Set down,” said Old Skinflint. “They won’t hear us.” 
“They” were evidently the people at the other side of the 
store. 

Partridge accepted the invitation, and then in a few words 
told the story of his marriage to Mazie Schilcraft, and explained 
the reasons which had led to her absence from the store. The 
man listened to the end of the tale with interested attention. 

“And I have told you this,” said Partridge, “with the hope 
that you would keep her here without prejudice until she is 
ready to resign—which, I think, will be within the next two 
or three weeks.” 

“That’s all right,” said Old Skinflint. “She’s a good dress¬ 
maker and sometimes a good enough salesgirl. She knows the 
stock, and she’s always here punctual. But why don’t you 
take her along with you?— You’re married to her?” 

Partridge was plainly embarrassed by this question. 

27 


28 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


“Because—” he began. 

“Well—because what?” demanded the storekeeper. 

“Because she wishes me to graduate at the divinity college. 
I’m to be a preacher, and she prefers to live at home until I’m 
through. After that, I want to take her to my mother’s house 
at Renshaw.” 

“Well, young man, it seems to me,” said Old Skinflint, 
“you’ve done the honorable by her, and I don’t see no objec¬ 
tion to keeping her here, as you ask. Let her come back—we 
need her right now.” 

“I think she is coming back right away,” said Partridge, 
greatly relieved to have won a favorable decision from her 
employer; thanking him, he walked away. 

Partridge stopped in another smaller shop and bought a 
sheet of paper and an envelope. Obtaining permission to write 
a note on the counter, he penned this letter to his wife: 

Dearest Mazie: 

I went to the store just now and told Old Skinflint all about 
our trip and our marriage. He says he wants you back right 
away, for as long as you wish to stay. I don’t want you to 
work, dear—I want you to be with me; but as you have 
decided to wait until I finish, it seems better for you to return 
to his store. It’s better for us all to have our work. Oh— 
darling—how I wish you would come to me! But in a month 
I will be through, and then you are to come. You will come 
then, won’t you? 

Your loving husband, 

John 

He gave the letter to a lad, who promised to carry it at once 
to Mazie. 

He then returned to the school, and found there an air of 
excitement over his unexplained absence. Going straight to 
the President, he told him the story. President Miller was at 
first inclined to censure him for an act of rashness which 


FLAMES OF FAITH 29 

would doubtless affect his whole life, but when Partridge, with 
tears in his eyes, asked, “What else could I have done in 
honor, Doctor Miller?” that official took him in his arms, and 
replied, “Nothing else, Partridge—my son—it was an act of 
chivalry. If you have sacrificed yourself, you have done it 
through the prompting of a Christian gentleman’s heart. I 
will stand by you and help you to see the matter through.” 

The adventure quickly spread over the campus, and while 
there were expressions of regret, and even of pity, there was 
no word of condemnation from any one. 

Before plunging again into his studies, Partridge wrote a 
full account of the affair to his mother. After giving her the 
principal facts, he continued: 

“And then, darling mother, I took her to the home of her 
parents. They are poor people—fisher folk, but then, so were 
the Apostles of our dear Lord, fisher folk. They are not like 
the Apostles though—not yet. They are crude people, and 
their language is not like the language of the Apostles. I am 
afraid their speech is sometimes coarse—even profane—but 
that is the way they have been brought up. I don’t think they 
have ever heard the gospel of Jesus Christ, and, oh, dearest— 
may it not be possible that God has appointed me to show 
Mazie and her family the way of salvation? Indeed, mother, 

I have already learned a great lesson in Christian life from 
this affair. Only yesterday I would have considered myself 
degraded by marrying into such a lowly family, but now I 
know that no part of humanity can be too humble for contact 
with the best of us. I am going to bring her home to you just 
as soon as I graduate. And you will love her, won’t you, 
dearest? She does not speak your cultured speech, and her 
ways are far from yours, and you may be disappointed at first, 
but I feel sure, mother darling, that when she feels the power 
of the love that you and I will bring into her life, she will try 
to be a daughter of Christ—as you are!—and we will lift her 
up among the angels—won’t we, dearest? You see how I love 
her, don’t you? My eyes are streaming with tears as I write 
these words—for my heart is breaking, but God is testing me, 


30 FLAMES OF FAITH 

and I know that he will bring me peace and happiness after 
he has proved my fortitude. . 

“I W ant you to send this letter to Arthur Carrington. He 
graduates at the Harvard Law School this week, and he should 
know it all. I could not write to him as I am writing to you 
but a boy’s letter to his mother always reveals his heart, and 
I want my best friend in this world to know the inside of my 
heart. Arthur will come to see us as soon as I take Mazie 
home. And, oh, I do wish you were here so that I might put 
my head in your lap and be comforted by you. 

“Your loving, adoring son 

John Partridge." 


CHAPTER V 


John Partridge had been brought up in a rock-bound 
bigotry of medieval belief, which his parents and his church 
had given to him as a means of salvation, and this was the 
gospel in which he had been thoroughly instructed at the 
theological seminary where his studies were now approaching 
the end. 

His mother and father had inherited their faith from a long 
line of religious ancestry, every generation of which had pro¬ 
duced one or more ministers of the gospel. When John was 
born, his mother vowed in her heart, as she held the child 
upon her breast, that she would dedicate him to the Lord, 
even as Samuel, in the ancient Scriptures, had been dedicated! 

The first words taught to the child were the words of prayer, 
and as soon as his infant perceptions permitted it, he was 
instructed in the old story of religious faith, whereby this life 
is accepted merely as a preparation for an eternal life beyond 
the grave, which shall be Heaven for the good, and a Hell 
full of remorse, fire and brimstone for the bad. He was told 
that every act and word of his life were being recorded with 
merciless and unimpeachable accuracy in the records of High 
Heaven, and that he must acquire a heavy balance of good 
in order to save his soul from the perdition of a very little 
bad in the course of his passage through this life. Even if 
there was enough of the good to balance the bad, he was 
taught that Almighty God, for his own honor and glory, might 
still condemn his soul to perpetual torment, having determined 
on that awful destiny for the boy many ages before John's 

3i 


32 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


birth, or, to speak with exactness, at the time when the founda¬ 
tions of the earth were laid. 

With this conception of religion impressed upon his heart, 
John’s whole life in the early years was devoted to such 
thoughts and deeds as would tend to save his soul from Hell. 
His father died when the boy had not yet reached his teens, but 
his mother continued to press the ancient faith into his soul 
in all its ascetic rigor. The fear of God was taught to him 
as a terror of God. He prayed morning, noon and night that 
he might be saved at death from damnation by his Creator. 
He read the Bible incessantly, never finding a flaw or error in 
it, for when one reads the Bible as the Book of Life, flaws and 
errors do not exist. In such a one the critical faculty does not 
function. 

Partridge’s chum at the prep school was Arthur Carrington, 
a member of one of the richest families in New York. John 
had tried hard to induce Arthur to go with him into the min¬ 
istry of saving souls, but while the two boys read the Bible 
together, and prayed together, and discussed the scheme of 
salvation harmoniously, Arthur could not hear the call to 
preach. When the time came to go to college they both chose 
Yale for a classical course, and then, while Arthur studied 
law at Harvard, John undertook to fit himself for the ministry 
at the theological school, where through four years he received 
his final instruction in the way of salvation. 

When he entered the divinity school, John found himself 
in the hands of teachers who like himself dwelt forever upon 
the fear of God. No attribute of love or mercy was developed 
in the description of God to comfort the boy’s yearning heart. 
Torment and punishment formed the burden of every day’s 
lesson, and his professors insisted, day in and day out, that the 
only thing that would save any person in the whole world 
from everlasting perdition was the exact system of belief which 
had been taught to John. No other system of belief, no 



FLAMES OF FAITH 


33 


matter how universally it might be held, would have the slight¬ 
est efficacy in saving men, women and children from Hell. 
Distant civilizations of another faith, and barbarous tribes of 
the unexplored wilderness, were alike condemned to eternal tor¬ 
ture, because they had not heard, or hearing, had not accepted, 
the belief which had been bestowed upon John Partridge. Thus 
trained and instructed in what he believed to be the true gospel 
of the Christian church, he approached the completion of his 
preparation. 


CHAPTER VI 


Partridge worked day and night over his final examinations, 
and when commencement arrived he was graduated with the 
highest honors. 

He was clearly the most popular man in the school. Not 
only was he the best in scholarship, but in all the activities of 
the institution—its athletics and its social arrangements—he 
stood at the top. Six feet high in his stockings, handsome as 
a Greek marble, his head crowned with thick brown hair, his 
blue eyes full of tenderness and mirth, his affections strong, and 
his emotions active and deep—the whole community looked 
upon him as a born leader of men. In football and rowing 
he led his mates to victory, and in boxing he had acquired a 
skill which baffled every antagonist. Yet, when the relation¬ 
ships of life called for sympathy, he showed always the gentle¬ 
ness of a feeling heart. 

Every day he wrote to Mazie, telling her briefly of the 
progress of his work, and assuring her of his affection. He 
counted the days, he told her, that kept them apart, and 
begged her to remember that the happiest moment of his life 
would be that one which brought them together again. But 
no word of reply came from her. 

His mother wrote to him immediately, as follows: 

My Darling Son: 

I cannot tell you how much your letter has moved me. Your 
marriage would have been the last thing either of us would 
have thought of. I regret that it had to occur, and yet I have 
no word of reproach for what you have done. Your action 

34 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


35 


was justified by the circumstances, and I am very sure your , 
motive was high-minded. I would have wished a different mate 
for my son—one better qualified to help you in the work of 
your ministry; but I am deeply touched by what you say of 
the necessity of contact with the lowly. I hope for the best. 

I hope that all your expectations for lifting up this humble 
companion of your life will be fulfilled. I want you to bring 
her home with you, and I will receive her with open arms, 
and give her a mother’s love. Patience and affection will 
work wonders on a character such as you describe hers to be, 
and patience and affection we shall give her without stint. In 
time she will learn to be a daughter of Christ, as you have so 
nobly said. I long to see you in the triumph of your gradua¬ 
tion. The church at Wandsy has called you to its pulpit, and 
they desire you to take charge immediately. I have sent your 
letter to Arthur Carrington, and he is coming here to see you 
next week. May God bless you and comfort you, and guide 
you in the great work which lies before you—the harvest of 
souls which you are to bring into the Kingdom of Christ. 

Your loving 

Mother. 

President Miller gave him his diploma, and told him it was 
his commission to go and preach the gospel of Jesus Christ. 
He was to put on the armor of faith, and his feet were to be 
shod with the gospel of peace. Wolves would howl around him, 
but he was to walk without fear. Many false doctrines would 
assail his ears, but he was to be constantly on his guard lest 
they should weaken his fidelity to his Heavenly Father. He 
must save the world from eternal perdition by faith. No other 
way would do. The great, sorrowing world was before him, 
into which he was to bring the comforting spirit of Christ to 
heal the broken heart of humanity. 

Partridge waited impatiently for the exercises to end, and 
the moment the benediction was finished, he hastened to his 
room, threw off his cap and gown, and sped away to Mazie’s 


36 FLAMES OF FAITH 

house. His knock at the door brought a loud, “Come in!” 
and he entered. 

Bill Schilcraft and his wife were seated there—Bill smoking, 
and Meg cleaning a fish. There was a bottle on the table, and 
they were both besotted from indulgence in it. Neither one 
spoke to him, although their faces showed that they recognized 
him. 

“Is Mazie here, Mr. Schilcraft?” he asked quietly, while 
he endeavored to still the throbbing of his anxious heart. 

“No—she’s not,” answered Bill. 

“Will you”—and then turning his head to the mother— 
“will you, Mrs. Schilcraft—tell me where she is?” 

“We don’t know,” answered Meg. 

He looked in bewilderment from one to the other, but there 
was no sympathy or sign of help in their faces. 

“You will let me ask you, Mr. Schilcraft—Mrs. Schilcraft— 
you will let me ask you where I can find her, won’t you? You 
know she is my wife—and I promised to come for her as soon 
as I had finished at college. You will—won’t you—tell me 
where I can find Mazie?” 

“That’s the trouble, young man,” cried Bill. “You married 
her. That’s brought all the trouble—on her and on us.” 

There was no profanity in Bill on this occasion. His blas¬ 
phemous spirits were palpably subdued by something that had 
disturbed the irreverent freedom of his speech. 

“What do you know—please tell me what you know about 
it, Mr. Schilcraft.” 

Bill looked at him in silence for a moment over his pipe. 
Then reaching on the table, he took up a letter and handed 
it to Partridge. “She left us three days ago,” said Bill, “and 
we found this letter in her room.” 

The young husband seized it and read it with growing 
eagerness. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


37 


Dad and Mom: 

I quit my job at the store today. I told Old Skinflint I 
would not be back any more. I got another job in a place 
far from here. You are not to know where I am. I am going 
to have a baby. I shall work as long as I can, and save some 
money for the rest of the time. If He comes to ask about me— 
well, you don’t know where I am, and he will never know. I 
don’t belong with his people, and I’m through with him. When 
it’s all over I will tell you where to find me, but He is not to 
know—never! Make Dad go to work, as I ain’t got no more 
money for the family. 

Mazie. 

Partridge read the letter with a bursting heart. Here was 
the definite assurance of fatherhood coming to him, yet the 
circumstance filled him with anguish rather than joy. His 
wife had permitted her feeling for him to develop into loathing, 
and she had fled from her home and family in order to escape 
his presence. That cruel sentence—“He is not to know— 
never!”—stung him to the quick. His longing for her in the 
last days at school had been well-nigh unbearable and had 
almost upset the equanimity of his soul. Now the cup of 
happiness which he had come here to drink held nothing but 
the dregs of bitterness. It was gall and wormwood. 

He walked the floor of the little hut oblivious of the other 
occupants of the room. What right had she to scorn him thus? 
It would have been reprehensible enough for her to leave him— 
for her to leave him! But she was taking away something 
which belonged to him—an object over whose destiny she had 
no right to an exclusive control. It was his child as much as 
hers! Inwardly he began to revile her—and then his secret 
reproaches turned against himself. Fool—fool that he was to 
have yielded so hastily before the shadow of honor! A thou¬ 
sand times he wished that he had brought her home unmar¬ 
ried, and let her take her chances with her people, as he would 
have taken his own chances with the authorities at the school. 


38 FLAMES OF FAITH 

What was he to say to these authorities when he went back 
to tell them good-bye? How could he endure their secret pity 
—and would not they, too, regard him now as quixotic and 
sentimental beyond respect? 

And his mother! He had felt that in his mother s letter 
there was concealed a heartbroken regret at this marriage. 
Would not even she look upon him as a creature of impulse 
instead of the masterful man whom she had idolized? 

And Arthur Carrington—his chum and roommate at school 

_what would be Carrington’s estimate of him—that he would 

thus impulsively marry an ignorant woman, so far beneath his 
own station, and be immediately cast off by her? 

He checked himself suddenly, finding that his contempt for 
himself was greater than that anyone else could feel for him. 
What he was doing now was pitying himself! The basest of 
vices! Mazie had declared that she did not belong to him. 
Neither, then, did his tragedy belong to these others. It was 
his own cross in life—it did not belong to the school authori¬ 
ties, nor to his mother, nor to Carrington! He would carry 
that cross to his Calvary! He would lock up in the most 
secret recesses of his heart the agony that was destroying him 
from within, and the world should behold no trace of it upon 
his face! 

Bill and Meg had watched his perturbed walk without mov¬ 
ing from their seats, and he now stopped in front of them, and 
addressed them in a voice so calm that its tragic quietness 
startled them. 

“Mr. Schilcract—Mrs. Schilcraft,” he said, “I am truly 
sorry that this action of mine in marrying Mazie has resulted 
in bringing disappointment upon you. I thought that I was 
acting for the best. I still think so! If I had it to do over 
again, I would do precisely what I have done. I see no wrong 
in it—no mistake. But I am sorry that you are disturbed. 
I am going to try to find Mazie. I shall never cease from 


FLAMES OF FAITH 39 

hunting her until I do find her. But I am sorry for you—both! 
Good-bye!” 

Neither of them spoke in answer to him, and he walked out, 
closing the door behind him. 

Just then he felt a grip of steel on his throat, and found 
himself in the clutches of Jim Larkin. A burst of jealousy 
suddenly swirled up out of his heart, and filled him with a 
rage equaled only by the wrath which had exploded in the 
breast of his rival. He felt now for the first time that this 
man was the cause of his misfortune. Mazie had gone with 
him on the excursion because she had wished to make Jim 
Larkin jealous. The marriage to which she had yielded as 
a matter of prudence was hateful to her because she loved 
Jim Larkin. She had fled not only to escape from him, but 
to save herself from the persistent attentions of Jim! As these 
quick surmises flashed through his mind, he found, for the 
first time in his life, that rage was overthrowing his soul. He 
caught Larkin by the arms, wrenched the dirty hands from his 
throat, and threw him against the side of the house. 

Larkin ripped out a string of oaths and advanced again 
upon him. 

“Stand back, Jim Larkin!” he cried. “I don't want to fight 
y 0U —but if you lay your hand upon me again, I will make 
you regret it.” 

“Oh, you—” shouted Larkin, using a further supply of 
his favorite expletives, “you are the fellow that trapped my 
girl into a marriage that she didn't want! And now I’m going 
to give you Hell! ” 

Jim came on swinging his fists, until a blow on the chest 
and another on the cheek sent him down in complete forget¬ 
fulness of all the troubles of this life. Partridge turned him 
over with his face upwards, and seeing that he was but tempo¬ 
rarily dazed, walked away. 

He returned to the college and took his belongings away with 


40 FLAMES OF FAITH 

him, without saying a word to a soul there. At the station, 
while waiting for the train, he wrote out an advertisement and 
arranged to send it for publication in the “Personal” columns 
of the newspapers in three of the largest cities in the country. 
The notice read: 

“Mazie. Let me know where you are, and I will come to 
you in any part of the world. John.” 


CHAPTER VII 


When Partridge got off the train at Renshaw, he found his 
trunk in the baggage room. Placing it on his shoulder, he car¬ 
ried it to the sidewalk, where he deposited it in a wagon, and 
mounting the seat with the driver, was taken to his mother's 
home. 

Arthur Carrington, who had stopped off at Renshaw on his 
way home from Boston to New York, had arrived at the house 
an hour earlier, and he and Mrs. Partridge hastened to the 
door when the wagon stopped. 

Partridge sprang down from his high seat and grasped his 
mother in his arms. 

“Dearest," he cried. “I am so happy to be with you againl ” 

“Darling—darling!" she exclaimed, kissing him again and 
again. 

“Hello, Arthur—old man—it's great to have you here!" he 
said, grasping his friend's two hands. 

“John, I couldn’t go home without coming to see you," said 
Carrington, looking deeply into the other's face with an anxious 
desire to learn whether woe or happiness dwelt there. 

The trunk was brought in, the driver paid and dismissed. 
Mother, son and friend went into the little parlor. The next 
question could not be postponed for another instant. 

“Where is—where is Mazie, darling?" inquired his mother. 

Carrington sat down, but looked for the answer with the 
eagerness of a faithful friend. 

“Sit down, mother dear," said Partridge, pushing her gently 

41 


42 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

into a chair. He then walked to the table and touched some 
flowers, making an excuse for delay. 

“How fragrant they are,” he said, “and the yard is full of 

them.” 

He walked to the window and looked out. 

“It’s nice to be home again,” he said. His emotions over- 
came him, and he stood there weeping. His mother wiped her 
eyes, but waited for him to recover his control. Carrington 
stood up. 

“Hadn’t I better go upstairs, John?” he asked. 

“No, Arthur—I want you to hear it. Sit down.” 

In another moment he was able to speak. 

“She is not here. She is not coming.” 

They asked no questions, but waited for the rest of it. 

“I am afraid it is turning out badly,” he said, speaking 
rapidly so that his voice would not break. “You see, mother 
Arthur—there was no opportunity for me to choose a wife as 
a man should do—soberly, advisedly, as the marriage service 
has it. There we were, up there together, the boat gone, forced 
to spend the night in a village where there were no means of 
communicating with our friends, and in our minds the certainty 
of evil gossip blighting our lives. There was nothing else to 
do I had to marry her. She seemed to agree that the mar¬ 
riage was necessary, although she was reluctant to go on with 
it. Well, the next day, I took her to her parents’ home. I 
have told you that they are extremely poor, and they are 
ignorant and lowly—very primitive-given to profane speech— 
and, I am afraid, indulgent to the point of constant drunk- 
enness.” 

His hearers listened with tense interest, but neither of them 
interrupted him. He touched the flowers again, looked out of 
the window, and resumed his speech. 

“There was a stormy scene, and they heaped reproaches on 
me for marrying her. I declared my wish to take her to the 


FLAMES OF FAITH 43 

college, where I felt sure that President Miller would have 
found us a home together until after commencement. But she 
refused to go—said she didn’t belong in my class—think of 
that, Arthur, as if I am any better in the sight of God than she 
is! I made every appeal—on the most sacred grounds—but 
could not alter her determination. All she would say was that 
she would not come with me until I had finished at the college. 
So I went back to school.” 

Carrington now spoke for the first time. 

“Who was present at that interview?” he asked. 

“Her father and mother, and another fisherman named Jim 
Larkin.” 

“Who is he?” 

“A man about my age, who goes out on the boat with her 
father when they are fishing.” 

“Did he have anything to say?” 

“Yes, a lot. He’s her lover—not in a guilty sense, but he 
showed his feelings very plainly.” 

“And she—was her conduct moved by her feelings toward 
him?” 

“I think so—in part, at least.” 

“What happened after your return to school?” 

“I worked hard at my studies, but wrote to her every day. 
No answer came. The moment I got through with commence¬ 
ment I went to her house, and found that she had gone away.” 

“This fellow Larkin?” 

“No—he was there. I saw him outside—later. No one 
knew where she was. She left a note saying she had given up 
her place at the store, and that she had secured a place in a 
distant city. She said-” 

Again he fingered the flowers, and again walked to the 
window. 

“She said—that she is going to have a baby.” 



44 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


The mother sprang up. 

“John—you have married a woman like that!” 

“Stop, mother, dear! That child is mine. We were there 
at the hotel that night.” 

Mrs. Partridge resumed her seat, and her son continued 
his story. 

“She said in her letter that she would work as long as she 
could, and would save money enough to take care of her 
necessities, and that she was through with me, and would never 
see me again.” 

The mother arose and took him in her arms, and they both 
gave way once more to their emotion. When they had regained 
their composure, Partridge said: 

“I am using every possible means to find her, so that I may 
take care of her. You both have the whole story.” 

Carrington took his friend’s hand. 

“It is not a time for words, John,” he said. “You know that 
your mother feels this pain as you do—and so do I. A tragedy 
has come into your life at its very threshold; but it will con¬ 
secrate your work. All you can do is work—the sooner you 
plunge into your work the better it will be. No one can 
reproach you for this marriage. I would not have done it in 
your place, but that simply proves that you are a better man 
than I am. When will you take up your church work?” 

“Next Sunday—unless they reject me because of this 
thing.” 

“They won’t reject you. Tell them about it, and if they 
are human beings, they will respect you more highly for it. 
And now”—looking at his watch—“I have just time to catch 
my train for New York.” 

“I am so glad you stopped over, Arthur. You have been a 
great help to me. Shall I go with you to the train?” 

“No—stay here with your mother.” 


FLAMES OF FAITH 45 

“I know that you will have a great success in the law, 
Arthur.” 

“And I know that you will have a great success in the 
church. I am coming to Wandsy next Sunday to see you 
J>egin your work.” 


CHAPTER VIII 

The little church at Wandsy was filled to its doors when the 
Rev. John Partridge walked into the pulpit to preach his first 
sermon. He and his mother had already been installed in the 
tiny but comfortable parsonage adjoining the church. He had 
called the church officials into conference immediately upon 
his arrival and told them the facts concerning his marriage, 
offering to give up the appointment if they wished it. They 
had assured him of their sympathy and confidence, and of 
their unshaken desire to have him as their pastor. 

His mother sat in the second pew on the aisle to his right, 
and beside her was Arthur Carrington, who had arrived that 
morning from New York. 

The chief elder, Mr. Browning, occupied a chair at Part¬ 
ridge’s side in the pulpit. When a hush fell on the congrega¬ 
tion, he arose and gave out a hymn, which was sung with 
fervor while all stood. He then introduced the new minister. 

“It is a very great pleasure,” said Mr. Browning, “to present 
our new minister to this congregation. He has recently com¬ 
pleted his studies for this sacred calling, and comes to us to 
consecrate his life to the ministry of Jesus Christ He already 
lives in the parsonage. His mother is with him, and will 
always be at his side. He is married, but his wife is not here- 
At this moment of his beginning his life among us, I want to 
ask for him the confidence and affection of our people. I 
introduce the Rev. John William Partridge. 

As the young preacher arose his heart was bursting with 
emotion, but there were only two persons in the assembly 

46 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


47 


before him who could divine his feelings. His voice, however, 
was strong and full of cheerfulness, yet with a note in it that 
brought tears to the thoughtful among his hearers. 

“My dear friends,” he said, “this is a most important mo¬ 
ment in my life. A young preacher’s first sermon is an epoch 
in his career. I cannot tell you how deeply touched I am by 
the kind words that Mr. Browning has spoken. I shall be 
happy indeed if I can win your confidence and affection. I 
can do nothing without that. I should like to know that I 
am to have a part in everything that affects the welfare and 
the happiness of every person in this community. Your joys 
and your sorrows shall be mine, and together we shall walk 
before God in the great work that he has given us to do.” 

After speaking these words, he paused, and then began his 
discourse. 

“I cannot help recalling this morning the first sermon of 
another young preacher, whose mother and sisters and broth¬ 
ers sat in the church with him. His text was taken from Isaiah: 
‘I have come to heal the brokenhearted.’ That is the text I 
should like to take from Jesus. For the gospel of Christ is 
glad tidings, and it means the healing of every sorrow.” 

Partridge then developed his theme, quietly at first, but with 
growing power and eloquence, touching with every word the 
pathos of human life, and showing how the hunger of the 
spirit can be fed in no other way than by a dependence upon 
God as God stands revealed to us through the ministry of 
Jesus Christ. Then he told them how Jesus had felt the 
shadow of the cross long before he was forced to carry it, and 
that every life has its burdens, which must be carried to Cal¬ 
vary, but beyond Calvary there is life without sorrow. 

His audience was filled with admiration for his learning 
and for the imagination which lighted his learning as with 
heavenly fires, while the deadly earnestness of his speech 
carried conviction into the hearts of his people, making them 


48 FLAMES OF FAITH 

feel that the religion which this young man was bringing to 
them would be the bread of life to their souls. 

At the conclusion of the services, they all crowded around 
him to take his hand and praise him for his sermon, giving 
him every evidence that he had already won their love and 
esteem. 

When the greeting was ended, he followed his mother and 
Carrington into the house, and received their congratulations. 
Mrs. Partridge embraced him and expressed her satisfaction 
with the day’s work. Carrington was enthusiastic in his 
comments. 

“It W as not merely the sermon that caught them, John, he 
said. “It was the pathos that came out of your own soul 
which moved them to tears. They don’t know that secret, but 
your mother and I do know it. I never listened to such a voice 
before. It was the most impressive sermon I ever heard. My 
heart was in my throat all the time. You have caught the 
t own —captured your congregation—won the fight at the onset. 
You are going to make a wonderful success. I’m proud of 
you, old man.” 

It was hard for his mother to speak. She had controlled her¬ 
self during the sermon only by the greatest exercise of her will. 

“I have been thinking all morning, darling,” she said, “that 
God has broken your heart in order to enable you in your min¬ 
istry to heal the broken hearts of others.” 

Carrington then informed his two friends of his engagement 
to Barbara Pendleton, and invited Partridge to perform the 
ceremony—a service which John told him he would be glad to 
render. 


CHAPTER IX 


P artridge had made a distinctly favorable impression upon 
his congregation. This was shown during the next few days 
by a multitude of calls made upon him and his mother at the 
little parsonage. The new preacher, on his part, lost no time 
in embarking upon the regular duties of his pastorate. His 
people were promptly acquainted with the fact that in all 
matters that touched their lives he was a sympathetic and 
sensitive friend. In the experiences of birth, marriage and 
death, he was always near them in presence or in spirit, and 
the sorrow which had so unexpectedly invaded his own peace 
gave his ministrations a tenderness which at once endeared 
him to the community. 

He took for the motive of his work the declaration of Paul 
to the Corinthians: “For I determined not to know anything 
among you save Jesus Christ and him crucified.” In all his 
discourses he emphasized the personal character of Christ, and 
dwelt upon the relation of that character to the present-day 
problems of life. This gave to his talks a vitality and an attrac¬ 
tiveness which fascinated his hearers and made his pulpit a 
living force in the town. His Sunday services were always 
crowded, and the midweek prayer-meeting, which had been 
heretofore a cold and perfunctory affair, was now the pathway 
by which his people found a familiar and comforting approach 
into the presence of Almighty God. 

The story of the marriage to Mazie, and of the chivalrous 
motive which had controlled his conduct in that affair, were 

49 


50 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

soon spread through the town, and helped to win friends to 
his side. 

When the date for Carrington’s wedding arrived, he took, 
his mother to New York, and they were welcomed as guests 
in the handsome apartments of his friend. The wedding was 
celebrated in the height of fashion, Partridge performing the 
ceremony in the church in which the Pendleton family held 
their membership, and then attending the reception at the 
home of the bride. When the day was ended he returned with 
his mother to Wandsy. 

A year passed, and in all that time he had heard nothing 
from Mazie, nor could he learn anything from any source con¬ 
cerning her existence. Month after month he wrote to Old 
Skinflint about her, but was always informed in reply that 
she had not returned either to the store or to the town. His 
latest letter from the friendly proprietor contained some gossip 
but nothing that was satisfying. 

“Old Bill Schilcraft, the girl’s father, died in his cups two 
months ago,” [wrote his friend]. “Meg Schilcraft, the mother 
is pretty near dead from the same cause. Jim Larkin is still 
there. He goes out fishing in the boat every once in a while 
but most of the time he loafs around the house with Meg. I 
was there yesterday and saw them both. I told them you had 
sent me to inquire about Mazie, and Jim said that I was to 
tell you to go to Hell, while Meg looked at me like she didn t 
understand what I was talking about. I don’t think they have 
ever heard a word from Mazie, and the girl may be dead for 
all any of us can find out. I wish she was dead and that we 
all knew it. Maybe I hadn’t ought to say that, but that s 
how I feel. If I ever hear anything I sure will tell you. 

“Yours respectfully, by the name you know best— 

Old Skinflint.” 

As time passed on, the romantic love which his hasty mar¬ 
riage to Mazie had kindled in his heart began to die away. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


51 


Love must be fed with affection, and the bitterness of Mazie’s 
desertion of him finally chilled and then killed his tender 
feeling toward her. 

But there was one thing that kept her image, though cold 
as marble, still alive in his memory, and that was their child. 
Was it a boy—was it a girl? What was the environment into 
which she had placed it? Would she bring it up in the love of 
God and the knowledge of Jesus Christ? 

The yearning of the father’s heart made him compassionate 
to all childhood, and he poured out upon the little members 
of his flock a flood of affection which they and their parents 
reciprocated in full measure. 

He met women of his own age who attracted him, and he 
found it a pleasant thing to be in their society, but he never 
for an instant forgot that he was a married man, disciplining 
himself against the fires of nature as a duty which he owed 
to his soul. 

He exchanged letters with Carrington at frequent intervals 
and he had occasion in time to rejoice with his friend in the 
birth of a daughter, who was named Rebecca Carrington. In. 
one of his letters, Arthur had urged him to obtain a divorce, 
telling him that Mazie’s heartless desertion would give him 
a legal cause without scandal, and that his friends would all 
accord him their hearty approbation. Partridge replied that 
he could not consider a divorce, and that he believed that those 
whom God had joined together could not be put asunder 
except by death. When Carrington persisted in pressing the 
subject, and boldly told him that God had never had anything 
whatever to do with his marriage to Mazie, Partridge dropped 
the matter without further discussion or thought upon it. 

His letters from Old Skinflint ceased quite suddenly, and 
when no answers came to his letters, he assumed that the mer¬ 
chant was dead. Again and again he made use of newspaper 
advertisements in the search for his wife, but always without 


52 FLAMES OF FAITH 

result. When he had begun to despair of ever finding Mazie, 
he received one day a letter from Old Skinflint which deeply 
stirred his emotions and led him to instant action. This was 
its message: 

“I haven’t written you because things are going on here 
which I didn’t like to tell you. But my wife says that you 
should know that Mazie has been here for six months. Her 
father and mother are both dead, but Jim Larkin is making 
his home at the house with her. I don’t want to make any 
trouble, but it’s right you should know these things. You are 
the one to say whether you should come here and see for 
yourself what the situation is.” 

Partridge took the next train for Radmoor. 


CHAPTER X 


When Partridge, on the day following their marriage, had 
left his wife, virtually expelled from her presence, Mazie had 
sat down in a silence which wrapped itself like a pall upon the 
entire household. Then the letter from John came. For a 
long time no one spoke. Then Jim Larkin said: 

“Mazie, you have no use for that guy. He's not your kind. 
His people would look down on you. There won't be no place 
there for you. They don’t talk like you. They don't think 
like you. Send him about his business, Mazie. You promised 
to marry me—you promised—didn’t you, Mazie?” 

“Well, you see I've lied about it, don’t you?” she snapped 
back at him. 

“You couldn’t help it, Mazie. I see the fix you was in. And 
maybe the guy was trying to fix it the best he knew how. But 
he sure made a mess of it. He never saw you till this boat- 
ride—and you never saw him. You don’t care for him—not 
the snap of your finger, and he don’t care for you! Don’t you 
see where you’re at, Mazie? Now, what’s this marriage amount 
to? Nothing! Send him about his business, Mazie, and then 
—keep your promise to me! ” 

“Oh—shut your mouth!” cried the girl. 

Again there was a long silence, and Mazie, who had not 
taken off her hat, started for the door. 

“Where to?” demanded Bill. 

“To Old Skinflint’s,” she answered, and was gone. 

When Mazie entered the store, her employer greeted her 
with a cordiality that surprised her. 

53 


54 FLAMES OF FAITH 

“They told me you was going to fire me” she said. 

“But I ain’t,” he answered. “Your husband was here a few 
minutes ago and told me all about it. I’m glad to have you 
back, Mazie, and glad you’ve married such a nice young man.” 

She made no reply, but took off her hat and coat, hung them 
on a peg at the back of the store, went behind the counter, and 
began to wait on the customers. 

But as the days passed, Mazie’s smile, which had always 
brightened the trade at the store, disappeared, and one evening, 
as she was getting ready to go home, she informed Old Skin¬ 
flint that she would not be back. 

“Going to join your husband, eh?” he asked. “Well, I am 
sorry to lose you—you’re a good salesgirl—but you’re doing 
the right thing. A young wife’s place is with her husband.” 

“But I’m not going to him,” she said, almost in anger. 

“Well, well—I don’t know what to make of this!” he said. 
“But it’s none of my business. Good-bye, and good luck.” 

When Mazie had finished her supper, she walked out of the 
house and went down to the dock to look at the sea. In a few 
minutes Jim followed her. 

“What makes you so quiet, Mazie?” he asked. 

«<Oh—nothing,” she replied, with her eyes far out on the 
waves. 

“You don’t want to go with that fellow?” 

“No.” And then she burst into a violent fit of sobbing. 
“Oh,” she shouted, “I would like to throw myself into the sea! ” 

Jim patted her hand. 

“What’s the matter, Mazie?” he asked. 

“Don’t touch me!” she cried, shaking off his touch. “I’m 
going to bed!” and she walked with a quick step back to the 
house, leaving her lover in bewilderment at the shore. 

Arrived at the hut, she went straight up to her room, and in 
the light of a candle, wrote the letter which we have already 
seen, telling her parents the secret that was distressing her, 


FLAMES OF FAITH 55 

and announcing her intention of going away. The next morn¬ 
ing she was gone. 

Mazie took the early train for one of the great New England 
cities, and soon obtained employment as a dressmaker in a 
leading department store. Her service was satisfactory, and 
it was not many days before her wages were increased, and 
then increased again, so that she was not only able to pay her 
board at the Young Women’s Christian Association, where she 
had found a home, but had enough left to save something for 
the period of idleness which lay ahead of her. 

The matron at the home was a kindly woman, experienced 
in all the ills that beset young womanhood, and in time Mazie 
told her the story of her marriage and the events which suc¬ 
ceeded it. 

“But why don’t you go to your husband?” asked Mrs. Leslie, 
mystified by such a narrative. 

“Because I didn’t want to marry him—because I loved Jim 
Larkin! He was so much afraid we would both be disgraced— 
although he cared more for me than he did for himself—that 
he persuaded me into it. It would have been better if we had 
come home not married—better for him and better for me— 
and let them talk till they was black in the face. Then I 
would have married Jim—and he could have fixed it with 
the school people.” 

“But, my dear, you have no right to love Jim when you are 
married to another man!” 

“I know I ain’t. That’s why I have run away. I can’t go 
to him—no, I won’t! I would rather die! And I’m not going 
to let this affair take place where Jim will be around every 
day. When it’s all over I will have a chance to think it all 
out. That’s what I want to do—think it out.” 

“Well, Mazie, we shall take care of you until you get 
through with this matter, and by that time I hope you will 
see your duty in another light. Your husband must be a high 


56 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

type of man to have behaved so nobly when he thought your 
reputation was in danger, and I think you should go back to 

him and live with him.” . 

“That’s just it—he’s too high a type for me! But that am t 
all of it, Mrs. Leslie. I love Jim Larkin, and that’s why I m 
doing this.” 

“Mazie!” cried the matron, moved by a sudden suspicion. 

“This child—is not Jim’s!” 

“No—I’ve always been straight. It’s my husband s. 

“Weil, you are excited and out-of-sorts, Mazie. When its 
all over—we shall see what we shall see.” 

The unwanted child came into the world before he was 
expected, opened his eyes, shut them, and passed away. They 
found him with his fist shut and a frown on his brow, like a 
little warrior who had been beaten in an unfair fight. 

It was not long before Mazie was back in the department 
store, and hard at work. If there was in her heart any pang 
of bereaved motherhood, she kept the knowledge of it to her¬ 
self Hating Partridge, she found it impossible to grieve for 
the death of his child. Her thoughts were constantly with 
Jim, yet the fact that she was Partridge’s wife kept her away 
from Jim. 

The kindly matron renewed her entreaties to Mazie that 
she should return to her husband. But it was all in vam. 

“I don’t love him, Mrs. Leslie,” she protested. “I could 

never go to him again.” 

“But you won’t go to Jim—promise me that.” 

“I promise! I have thought it all out, as I said I would. I 
could not trust myself with Jim—I won’t go to the other man 
—and so I am going to live here, and forget them all.” 

And so the weeks passed. 

One day she found on the table at the home a newspaper 
which stated that the fishing fleet from Radmoor had been lost 
in a squall at sea, and Jim Larkin’s name was printed in the 


FLAMES OF FAITH 57 

list of the drowned. With a white face she showed the paper 
to Mrs. Leslie. 

“Now I can go home, ,, she cried. 

The matron threw her arms around her. 

“It is God’s way,” she said. “You have been very courage¬ 
ous. May God bless you.” 

Mazie resigned her position that night at the department 
store, and the next day she took the train for Radmoor. 


CHAPTER XI 


Arrived at Radmoor late in the afternoon, Mazie walked 
with a quick step to her old home. When she reached the 
door she hesitated before opening it. She feared to meet a 
hostile reception from her parents, yet there was a sense of 
satisfaction in finding herself once more in the home in which 
she had grown up. After pausing a moment, she threw open 
the door in her old defiant way, and entered the house. 

Jim Larkin was sitting there, the sole visible occupant of 
the place, and as soon as he recognized his visitor he sprang 
to his feet. 

“Mazie—is it you?” he exclaimed. 

“Jim Larkin! They said you was drownded!” 

“But I wasn’t. I was picked up from the wreck—the only 
one saved.” 

“Where’s Dad?” 

“Dead.” 

“And Mom?” 

“Dead.” 

“And you are living here—by yourself?” 

“Yes—waiting for you. I knowed you’d come!” 

“Can I get some supper for you and me?” she asked. 

“Why, yes, Mazie—there’s some milk in the house—some 
tea—and some pataties—you know. You can fry some eggs 
and a piece of fish. Get anything you like.” 

The girl threw off her coat and hat, and soon had supper 
cooking on the stove. She ran upstairs to her old room, which 
was now in much disorder, showing everywhere the lack of 

58 


FLAMES OF FAITH 59 

attention. Leaving her things there, she returned downstairs, 
and sat at the table with Jim for supper. 

“Who takes care of you?” she asked. 

“Nobody, Mazie. I just live here by myself.” 

“Cook your own food?” 

“Oh, yes, that’s easy. Fish—eggs—milk. A chop, or a 
piece of steak, now and then. Anybody can do that.” 

“I suppose so. Mother did all that for you, while she lived?” 

“Yes—until near the end.” And then, eagerly: “But I’m 
glad you’ve come back, Mazie.” 

“Why—I don’t know as I will stay, Jim.” 

“But you wouldn’t go away again—Mazie?” 

“Yes—I would. You and me can’t live here in this house, 
Jim.” 

“I don’t see why not.” 

“I’m married—to him.” 

“But you’ll get a divorce.” 

“I don’t know, Jim. I don’t think I can. Maybe he will. 
I have always hoped he would.” 

“I don’t see why you can’t get one—and marry me, Mazie?” 

“It’s not easy. I don’t want to marry anybody.” 

“But you won’t leave me, Mazie—now you’re back—you 
won’t go away again—will you?” 

Jim took her hand, and looked into her face with pleading 
eyes. 

“They’d talk scandalous about us—you know they would,” 
she said. “If he’d get a divorce, I might see it different.” 

“Let’s forget about him, Mazie. You’re back. That’s 
enough for me.” 

“Jim,” she said, when they had finished supper, “I want to 
go out and look at the sea.” 

“Shall I go with you?” 

“No—I want to go by myself.” 

“All right, Mazie. I’ll put the supper things away.” 


60 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

It was dark, except for a half-clouded moon, and Mazie 
walked down to the shore and watched the rising tide rolling 
up on the rocks. There was a mystery in the dash and spray 
of the surf which fascinated her. The moon was now clear, 
and high in the heavens, throwing a flood of light upon the 
waves far beyond the shore. Mazie was looking a thousand 
miles away, and thinking. 

She was thinking of her life, and of the change which had 
come into it through her chance acquaintance with John 
Partridge. Loving Jim, and expecting to marry Jim, she was 
now the wife of a man who was, in effect, an utter stranger 
to her—yet she had become the mother of his child! She had 
endeavored to protect herself in the tragic situation which had 
developed after the picnic. She had fled from her husband, 
because she did not love him, and from her lover, because she 
feared to trust herself in his companionship. Only when she 
thought her lover dead had she returned to her own home. 
Here was tragedy upon tragedy! Her lover was not dead. He 
was here—waiting for her—and now pleading with her to 
remain in this house with him. 

She knew the danger well. The very desolation of her life 
added an element of peril. She was of humble rank. No one 
knew her except as a working girl. She had no intimate 
friends, and her very loneliness tempted her to take the risk. 
She might try it for a few days. She cared nothing for the 
gossip of the village. Anything she wanted to do was her own 
affair. If Jim proved too persistent, she would go away from 
him. 

Just then Jim touched her arm. Startled, she drew herself 
away from him. 

“Jim—i told you I wanted to be alone.” 

“Yes, Mazie—I know you did. But I got the work done— 
and I thought you wouldn’t mind.” 

“But I do mind.” 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


61 


“Shall I go back?” 

“No.” 

There was a long silence between them, and they both looked 
out over the great water. Then Mazie spoke 

“Jim,” she said, “do you love the sea?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he answered. “I catch fish in it. I 
don’t see nothing else in it.” 

“Just fish!” she retorted. “I think there’s a lot more in it 
than fish.” 

“I never saw nothing else,” replied Jim. 

“Let’s go back,” she said, and again in silence they retraced 
their steps and returned to the house. 

A single candle burned on the table, making a hole in the 
darkness, while the moonbeams came through the window in 
a subdued ray on that side of the room. 

Mazie threw herself down upon a chair, and with her arms 
upon the table, buried her head in her hands. 

Jim took a bottle from the table and poured out a stiff drink 
of whiskey. 

“Mazie,” he said, “drink this. It will do you good.” 

The girl pushed the glass aside, but held her hand upon it. 

“That’s the way my father and mother went—wasn’t it?” 
she asked. “Drinking whiskey?” 

“I guess so,” answered Jim. 

Mazie looked at the glass, then looked up at Jim, and drank 
to the last drop. 

Jim poured the glass half-full again. 

“Here’s to your good health, Mazie,” he said, drinking it. 

She turned her face toward him, and for the first time 
smiled. 

“Jim,” she said, “I want to talk to you.” 

“Go ahead, Mazie.” 

“I’ve been in Hell ever since I went away. I kept at work 
as long as I could, then, the baby was bom, and died the same 


62 FLAMES OF FAITH 

day, and soon after that I worked again—off there, all by 
myself. I didn’t know a damned soul. I went to church all 
the time-because I lived in the Young Women’s Christian As¬ 
sociation, but all that church stuff never touched me. Yet 
couldn’t get away from it. And I was afraid to come home. 
“What was you afraid of, Mazie?” 

“I’m not going to tell!” 

She looked up at him, and saw him holding the whiskey 
bottle in one hand and the glass in the other, and suddenly 

the room rang with her laughter. 

« Gee _it’s good to hear you laugh! ” shouted Jim. Here— 

take another drink, Mazie! This is like old times!’’ 

“I oughtn’t to, Jim—but—well celebrate my return home! 

JU H e a gtvTher a half-a-glass, and again she drank it all, and 

then he took another drink. 

“What was you afraid of?” he repeated. 

“Well,” she said, "I seen a newspaper one day, and it said 
that you was drowned. I wasn’t afraid any more! 

“Was you afraid of me?” he demanded. 

“Yes—and now you know!” 

Again she laughed, and Jim caught the contagion of her 

mirth and gave a rollicking shout. 

“Afraid of me—oh, Lord!” he cried. “I wouldn’t hurt you, 

Mazie! Here take this!” 

“No— n o more, Jim.” 

“Just this one glass, Mazie.” 

“Well—this is all—remember! ” 

And again she drank it. 

Jim put the bottle and glass on the table, and sitting down 

beside her, took her hand in his. 

“What made you afraid of me, Mazie?” he asked. 

“It’s something I can’t tell you, Jim.” 



FLAMES OF FAITH 63 

His arm crept around her, and she moved her face until 
her cheek rested against Jim’s. 

“Tell me, Mazie,” he repeated. 

“No, Jim—no!” she said. And then it came out of her 
heart. 

“Oh, Jim,” she cried, “there’s not a day that I haven’t 
wanted to be with you—every day of my life! Day and night, 
you’ve never been out of my thoughts—and that’s why I’ve 
kept away from you. I was honest and straight, and I always 
meant to be that way. And I didn’t come back until I be¬ 
lieved you was dead—did I, Jim?” 

Jim was holding her tight in his arms. 

“No, Mazie—I know what you mean. Afraid to trust your¬ 
self. Well, I’ve been eating my heart out about you. I 
knowed you would come back some day. And now—I’ve got 
you here—in my arms—and you don’t never get away from 
me again.” 

“Jim—I ought to go—I will go away—tomorrow!” 

He had drawn her over upon his lap, and she was trying to 
resist his kisses. 

“There won’t be no tomorrow!” he said. 


CHAPTER XII 


Mazie sat at the window one morning, mending a man’s 
shirt. The garment was blue woolen, such as was worn by 
the fishermen of the village. 

Six months had passed since her return to her home, and 
the manner of her life had begun to leave its mark upon her. 
Her face did indeed retain much of its former prettiness, there 
was still something of the color of young womanhood in it, 
but there was also a suggestion of puffy redness which was 
but too palpably the result of intemperance. Her figure, too, 
had changed perceptibly, and the sprightly creature whose, 
former charms had so easily won admiration was now grown 
into a stout and even fat woman, looking considerably older 
than her years. 

Her dress was the garb of poverty—a gown of homespun, 
woolen stockings, shoes with holes in them. Everything that 
was neat and tidy had vanished from her existence. 

There was no happiness in her heart, if her face was the 
reflection of her feelings. She plied her needle slowly and in 
a mechanical fashion which showed no interest in her work. 
There was a bruise on her forehead, which she touched with 
her hand now and then, as if there was still a pain there. 

There was a knock at the door. 

“Come in!” she shouted, without looking up from her work. 

The door opened and John Partridge entered the room. 

“Well—what is it?” she asked, and then suddenly she rec¬ 
ognized him. 

“What do you want here?” she almost shrieked, springing 
64 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


65 

up from her chair, and flinging the shirt to the floor. “Who 
told you you could come here?” Swayed by an indefinable 
instinct, she walked quickly to the other side of the room, and 
with the aid of a cracked looking-glass on the wall, began to 
straighten her hair; taking up an old ribbon from the table, 
she fastened it around her neck. Then turning again toward 
Partridge, she demanded: 

“Why did you come?” 

“Mazie,” he said, “I would have come long ago if I could 
have found you. Yesterday I had a letter from Old Skin¬ 
flint—and I have come at once to see you.” 

“Well—you see I am here!” 

“Yes. I tried very hard to find you.” 

“I didn’t want you to find me.” 

“I had a notice in the personal column of the newspapers 
every two or three months.” 

“I seen it.” 

“But you would not answer?” 

“No. Why should I?” 

“Mazie, I could not go on with my work at Wandsy without 
finding you, and learning what your situation is.” 

“Well, I’m sorry you found me, and the less you know about 
that the better it will be for both of us.” 

“I have always wanted to contribute to your support, 
Mazie,” he said. “I would like to do so now.” 

“I don’t need nothing from you,” she answered, stolidly. 

“Mazie,” he said, putting aside his reserved manner, “tell 
me why it was that you left me—why did you leave me, when 
I so much wanted you to be with me?” 

“I knew it wouldn’t work,” she answered. 

“How do you mean?” 

“You were going to be a preacher. I had no use for that, 
and I knowed I wouldn’t fit in. Your mother, your friends, 
your church folks—they wouldn’t have no use for me. At 


66 FLAMES OF FAITH 

first—just after—after the marriage—I thought I would join 
you. I tried to think it out that way. Then, when I found 
there was a baby coming, I hated you, because it seemed like 
I must go with you whether I wanted to or not—as if I just 
had to. And I rebelled. I run away. I didn’t have no use 
for you. So I got a job at dressmaking away off. 

“The baby,” interrupted John. “Tell me!” ^ 

“The baby—a boy—was born and died—the same day. 
“Dead! But it lived—a while?” 

“About an hour.” . 

“You—and the child—had good care—a physician and 

nurse?” . . , 

“Yes, we was in the hospital. The child was buried there 

in the cemetery—named for you—your name on the stone- 

John Partridge.” „ 

“That was good of you, Mazie—that was very good of you. 
“When that was all over, I kept working. I wanted to come 
back here, but I was afraid. 

“Afraid of what?” 

“Afraid of you—afraid you would come for me. And afraid 
of Jim.” 

“Why were you afraid of Jim?” 

“Oh—because.” 

“But why?” 

“Because—I knew he was here. I was afraid thats 
enough.” 

“What happened then?” 

“After a while I seen in a newspaper where Jim was drownded 
with the boats. I come home to my parents but they were 
dead, and Jim was alive—here!” 

“You sent him away, of course?” 

«No_you may as well have it! We’ve been living together 

ever since.” 

“You and Jim?” 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


67 


“Yes” 

Then, after a pause, he asked: “Where is Jim?” 

“Out in his boat.” 

There was a long silence. Then Partridge asked, quietly: 

“Mazie—was there any time in all this—when you wanted 
to come back to me?” 

“No,” she answered. “Not then, nor now.” 

“You are satisfied with your life as you are living it?” 

“I’ve made my bed, and I must lie on it,” she replied. 

“Is he good to you?” 

Her hand swept upward to her forehead. 

“What is that mark?” he asked. 

“Oh, he done it this morning. That’s nothing uncommon.” 

“He drinks?” 

“Yes—and so do I.” 

Again there was a silence, and Partridge paced to and fro. 
After a moment, he said: “Mazie, my work requires me to 
help all those who are in trouble. You are in great trouble. 
For many reasons my duty requires me to help you. We can¬ 
not again be husband and wife—you know that—but I would 
like to take you away from here—to Wandsy, where my 
church is—to my mother. My people there would help you, 
and you would lead a good life. Will you come?” 

Mazie gazed upon him with astonishment. 

“You don’t mean that you would take me there with you?” 
she cried. 

“Yes—I would rejoice to do so.” 

“After all this?” 

“Yes—after everything.” 

She wiped the tears from her eyes. 

“You are a queer kid!” she said, smiling through her tears, 
“but it’s too late.” 

“It’s never too late, Mazie. I wish you would come!” 

“I wouldn’t do it for a million dollars.” 


68 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


He looked at her for a long moment. 

“Mazie,” he said at last, “I want to lift you out of this 
sort of thing. You are too good to live such a life. I want to 
redeem you from this degradation. Won’t you come with 
me?” 

“No,” she said. “It’s too late. I’ve done too much. I’ve 
gone too far. If I only had my life to live again—I would! 
But not now—never!” 

“But his drunkenness—his violence!” 

“I’m as bad as he is. It’s no use your talking.” 

“But Mazie—to live with him in a sinful connection!” 

“That’s my affair.” 

“No, Mazie—that is God’s affair.” 

“When has God ever done anything for me?” 

“God is in your life all the time.” 

“You’re preaching now, and I hate you for it.” 

“I don’t mean to preach, Mazie. I’m pleading.” 

“It won’t do no good. I won’t listen to you.” 

“You wish me to go?” 

“Yes—the sooner the better.” 

“Can I help you—can I give you some money?” 

“I’m no pauper!” she retorted fiercely. “No!” 

“If you ever change your mind, Mazie, my home is open 
to you.” 

“Say,” she demanded, moved by a sudden curiosity, “why 
don’t you get a divorce and marry some other woman—some 
woman of your own class?” 

“I can never do that, Mazie,” he answered. “You and I 
are married to each other until death parts us.” 

“I don’t believe in that sort of thing.” 

“But it’s in the Word of God.” 

“Well, don’t say nothing more.” 

He walked to the table and without permitting her to see 
what he was doing he left a sum of money there for her use. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 69 

He resolved that he would remit to her every month through 
his friend, Old Skinflint, an allowance for her support. 

“Won’t you come with me, Mazie?” he said, in a pleading 
voice. “I shall be very good to you, and you shall never hear 
any reproaches.” 

“No,” she answered, “I’ve told you, no. It ain’t possible. 
Go—and don’t say no more.” 

He turned in the doorway. 

“Mazie,” he said, “I told you a while ago that you and I 
could not again live as husband and wife. I had no right to 
say that. I take it back. Won’t you come home with me— 
and live with me as my wife?” 

“You would think of me every day of your life as living with 
Jim. No—I won’t do it.” 

“Good-bye, then. Mazie—good-bye.” 

“Good-bye.” 

John walked out. Mazie ran to the door and watched him 
until he disappeared around the corner. Then, returning to 
the window, she took up the shirt and went on with her mend¬ 
ing, but between the stitches she wiped the tears from her 
eyes. 


CHAPTER XIII 


The young preacher walked into the parsonage at Wandsy, 
and called upstairs to his mother. When she came to him, he 
told her the story of his visit to Mazie. After she had heard 
all, she said: 

“You have done everything that a Christian conscience 
could dictate. There is nothing for you now but to forget her 
in the ardor of your work here.” 

“You are right, mother. I shall work harder than ever.” 

Partridge was beginning to grow restless. A secret feeling 
was springing up in his heart that he was not playing the 
game. He had been trained and commissioned to save the 
world, and he had studied the gospel of Christ in order that 
he might achieve that purpose. Yet here he was, spending 
these comfortable months at Wandsy, and pouring out upon a 
decent and devout community the learning and the energy 
which had been consecrated to a troubled and unsaved 
race. 

Nothing ever happened at Wandsy. There was no vice, no 
heresy, no crime. The people were a church-going folk, and 
they were born and married, and died, in orthodox respect¬ 
ability. Partridge found a lack of struggle. There was no 
battle, and where there was no battle there could be no vic¬ 
tory. The morning and evening sermons on Sundays, and the 
midweek prayer-meetings on Wednesdays, had seemed to re¬ 
solve themselves into a mere feeding of sheep. The sheep ate 
whatever their shepherd vouchsafed to give them. Worst of 
all, they ate out of his hand, and there were no wolves to 

70 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


71 


threaten from the dark hedges beyond. Wandsy was already 
a saved world. He could not conceive of anything that could 
shake its faith or disturb its equanimity; in his innermost soul 
he pined and fretted. 

When autumn came he attended the annual convention of 
his church, his mother going with him. He took a modest 
part in the proceedings, but nevertheless his talents won dis¬ 
tinction. Suddenly something happened which upset his life a 
second time—happened as unexpectedly, as unescapably as 
that other event which had stamped its sorrow upon him two 
years before. 

A missionary who had just returned from Africa addressed 
the convention, and gave an appalling picture of the condition 
of souls in the Dark Continent. Partridge at first listened with 
only casual interest. There had been many speeches on one 
topic and another, and it was all good entertainment. There 
was a good deal in some of these talks which he noted down 
to stimulate the little flock at Wandsy; but this missionary— 
evidently a consecrated and a fearfully earnest man—was not 
merely entertaining them. He was kindling a conflagration 
in them, and Partridge caught fire. 

“I have lived among these people,” said the missionary, 
“and I know their habits and their lives better than I know 
the habits and the lives of the people of New York. Whole 
tribes are being lost annually because the gospel has not 
reached them. There are millions of black people south of 
the Zambezi River who are absolute heathens. There are mil¬ 
lions more north of the Zambezi who are Moslems. These 
people are dying by the hundreds of thousands every year 
and going to perdition. They do not know God; they do not 
know Christ. Their greatest need is missionaries, for as to 
missionaries, it is as if the people of the United States, with 
a population of more than one hundred million, had one 
missionary in Maine and one in Texas, and none between.” 


72 FLAMES OF FAITH 

There was a gasp of astonishment when the people in the 
soft seats at the convention heard this statement, and Par¬ 
tridge grasped his mother’s hand in a paroxysm of emotion. 

“Let me tell you of some of the things I have seen there,” 
continued the missionary. “I have seen a girl baby buried 
alive with its dead mother. I have seen the natives eat each 
other. I have seen them day in and day out make their food 
on ants, mice, locusts and snakes. I have seen them making 
human sacrifices to their gods of mud and stone. I have seen 
them kill a woman because her dead husband’s spirit was 
calling her to the other world. I have seen them settle their 
quarrels by an appeal to the Witch Doctor, who gives poison 
to each adversary, and if either one survives, his cause is de¬ 
clared the just one. All these things, and many more of a like 
nature, have I seen when first I was a prisoner among them 
and unable to prevent these awful occurrences. And all the 
time their souls are going down to perdition, to suffer eternal 
torment. Oh, we need missionaries! Who will come? Who 
among you this day will take up the cross of Jesus and carry 
it into the dark recesses of the African forest? Who is there 
here who will be a soldier of Christ and go upon his glorious 
quest of souls? Is there a man here who will do it?” 

The missionary paused and scanned the congregation with 
eyes which seemed to burn into the souls of his hearers. 

John Partridge stood up, and there was a deathlike silence in 
the great auditorium. All eyes were fastened upon his stal¬ 
wart figure. The missionary advanced to the front of the 
platform, and listened. 

“I will go,” said Partridge. As his mother looked up at 
him she believed that his face was glorified, and while the 
tears streamed down her cheeks, she felt an awe of him as if 
God had just called him to a higher service. 

“Praise God for that enlistment!” shouted the missionary. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 73 

“Our brother will be a captain in the salvation host. Let us 
sing a hymn—let us glorify God with song—because this 
courageous brother has volunteered to go into the African 
vineyard and labor in the cause of Christ!” 

When the meeting and the services were over and the con¬ 
gratulations and the excitement were ended, Partridge and his 
mother walked to their hotel in the gathering dusk. Mrs. 
Partridge kept a tight hold upon his arm and neither one 
spoke until they had reached the mother’s room. Then she 
embraced him, and placed her head upon his heart, saying 
nothing. 

After a moment he spoke. 

“Mother—the call has come, and I am glad. I am thinking 
of those lost souls in the African jungles, mother, condemned 
to a terrible future throughout eternity because I—and men 
who have received the truth as I have received it—because 
we do not go to them and impart it to them, in order that they 
may inherit eternal life.” 

“When will you go?” she asked. 

“At once,” he answered. “Mother—I have thought of it 
many times—in many ways—but this terrible sermon has 
given me a definite purpose and a new inspiration. I am 
going to devote my life to the redemption of the unsaved.” 

“John—it is hard to give you up.” 

“You know, mother, a man must forsake his own house¬ 
hold! ‘He that followeth after me shall not walk in dark¬ 
ness!’” 

“You are right. I wished it the day you were born. Now 
my sad wish has come to its fulfilment.” 

“Oh, what a laggard I have been, in accepting this easy life 
at Wandsy!” 

“But the Lord was preparing you all the time, my son.” 

“Do you think so?” 


74 FLAMES OF FAITH 

“Yes. You could not have gone on this mission until you 
had learned the truth about Mazie—and the child. Now you 
know everything.” 

“You are willing that I should go?” 

“Yes.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


Partridge and his mother returned to Wandsy the next 
day, and the young preacher delivered his farewell sermon on 
the following Sunday. His little flock felt bereaved but they 
looked upon their minister as a hero in a sacred cause, and 
when the services were ended they pressed around him and 
spoke their sad farewells. 

It was arranged that Mrs. Partridge should return to Ren- 
shaw, where she owned a house, and take the maid with her, 
while, for the present, the congregation should bring from 
another city a student preacher who would take up the work 
where Partridge had laid it down. 

John found a steamer “white and gold” that sailed for 
Africa the next Saturday. The missionary society had pro¬ 
vided funds for the simple wants of the trip, and Partridge, 
after saying good-bye to his mother, had returned to New York 
to arrange for his departure. 

At the last moment, Arthur Carrington, whose overwork 
had pressed upon him the need of a vacation, had determined 
to go with Partridge to Africa, merely for the diversion and 
adventure of the trip, intending to return home as soon as he 
had seen his friend established in his missionary field. 

John had spent a busy week of preparation. In the first 
place, he had called upon the missionary for an hour every 
day, and talked with him extensively about the people whom 
he was going to save. Then he had studied maps and histories 
in the public library, and absorbed an enormous amount of 
information on every phase of his subject. At last the boat 

75 


76 FLAMES OF FAITH 

cast off, and as the land receded from his sight, he found him¬ 
self wondering about Mazie. He breathed a silent prayer that 
God would restore her to a virtuous life. For an instant he 
thought of the lost souls in his own country; but then the 
churches would take care of them! 

On the steamer, for the first few days, he kept his cabin 
most of the time, reading the books he had brought with 
him about Africa and its problems. Morning, noon and night 
he knelt in prayer and read the Bible, and he had the convic¬ 
tion that God was with him, which gave an inner light to his 
soul. When it came time for exercise, he joined Carrington 
in walking the deck and in playing the games provided for 
their recreation. These diversions finished, he was back at his 
Bible, his prayers, and his maps, with all the devotion of an 
anchorite. 

After a few days of sailing, he began to make friends among 
the passengers, and was surprised to find that he was one of 
a group of young men, each representing a different church, 
who had embarked, as he had done, to enter the African 
mission field. The group comprised, besides himself, young 
Stanwood, an austere Presbyterian, Gordon, a Methodist, Am¬ 
brose, a Disciple, Moberly, an Episcopalian, and a Roman 
Catholic priest, a young Irishman, Father O’Hara, all of whom 
were bent upon the mission of saving the African barbarians 
from Hell. Another passenger was Jacob Kaufman, a scholarly 
young Jew, who had just been made a rabbi, and who was going 
to Africa to broaden his experience before taking up the work 
of the synagogue. Partridge found himself immediately at¬ 
tracted by the engaging personality of this Hebrew youth. 
Carrington was good company for them all, bantering them 
upon their missions, and the dangers which lay before them, 
but holding himself in an amused aloofness from their theo¬ 
logical disputes. 

The missionaries were soon acquainted with each other, and 


FLAMES OF FAITH 77 

found themselves exchanging information, absorbed in the 
great call which had led them to desert home and friends to 
work in the Lord’s vineyard. Good fellowship reigned among 
them until by mischance a doctrinal subject was broached. 
Then there was instant confusion and discord. Amiable and 
friendly at all other times, they found themselves at daggers* 
points the instant they touched upon the religion which they 
were carrying to a benighted continent. John found it hard 
to believe that salvation could come to the heathen from any 
doctrine except the one which he was taking to them, and it 
disturbed his complacence somewhat to learn that each of the 
other young men felt the same way about his doctrines. On 
one of these controversial occasions, when the discussion had 
become heated, Ambrose, the Disciple minister, had made this 
declaration: 

“Africa must be saved, as the world must be saved, by the 
Church of the Living God!” 

Right! assented Father O’Hara, the Catholic, with a con¬ 
fident smile. “What, then, is the Church of the Living God?” 

# And each one in the group had then thundered the name of 
his own church, at which Carrington burst into a shout of 
laughter. 

The Jew spoke up quickly. 

“In what church,” he demanded, “did all of you find the 
Living God? And the Son of God—you call him so—in what 
church did you find him? Was it not the Jewish church, and 
for at least a generation after the death of Jesus, was not the 
Christian church exclusively a Jewish church, with its seat at 
Jerusalem? And is not your Bible—the Old and New Testa¬ 
ments alike—exclusively a Jewish Bible—written by Jews 
about Jews and revealing a Jewish God and a Jewish Mes¬ 
siah?” 

The faces of the others flushed, and there was a moment of 
silence. Then Stanwood answered: 


78 FLAMES OF FAITH 

“The Christian religion was born of the Jewish race, he 
said, “but Jesus was despised and rejected by the Jews w en 

he became the Saviour of the world.” 

“By some of the Jews—yes,” answered, the young rabbi, 
“but his Disciples, his followers, his multitudes, his churc , 
his doctrines—all these things, were Jewish ” 

“Then why do you not accept him as the Son of God? 


demanded Stanwood. _ , 

“We do accept him as the Son of God,” replied Kaufman, 
boldly. “Does not Moses say—in this Jewish Bible of 
yours—that we are all the sons of God?” . 

“There’s a vast difference,” replied Stanwood, without 

vouchsafing to explain the difference. 

to their controversies on the broad deck of the steamer, 
each at times found his church under attack from all the 
others Young O’Hara found the Catholic church more than 
once subjected to assault, but he contended for the ancient 
faith always with skill and generally with good humor. On 
such occasions, it was rather curious that Moberly, the Epis¬ 
copalian, would come to the assistance of his hard-pressed 
friend. These young men were all freshly from their books, 
and though without large experience in life, they delighted 
in attempting off-hand the adjustment of theological problems 
over which great controversies and greater wars had raged 

for many centuries. . . a , , 

One day, when they were laughing in their chairs at a school 
of porpoises leaping through the waves, Gordon, the Meth¬ 
odist, who usually led the attack on Rome, spoke suddenly in 
relation to nothing whatever that had preceded. 

“It was your church,” he said, turning upon OHara, who 
was still watching the porpoises-“it was your church that 
made an unbeliever out of a good Christian like James An¬ 
thony Froude.” _ , 

“Bless my soul!” cried the priest. “What has my church 


FLAMES OF FAITH 79 

done now? What did she do to Froude—she was not stretch¬ 
ing people on the rack in his time.” 

This was said because they were all so fond of bringing 
up the Spanish Inquisition. 

“He promised to write a book on the lives of the Saints,” 
continued Gordon, “and when he came upon the biographies 
which were matters of Catholic faith, it made him a heretic.” 

“As how?” asked O’Hara, still smiling. 

“He found himself obliged to write of St. Neot that through 
faith he was enabled to light fires with icicles, to change ban¬ 
dits into wolves, and to float across the sea on an altar stone. 
When he found they were all like that, he ceased to believe 
anything.” 

“Poor man! It was too bad about him!”—was all the 
answer the priest would vouchsafe. 

“And your Pope,” Gordon went on—“did he not issue a 
bull in which all the favorite beliefs of the modern world, the 
claims of science, the sanctity of free speech, the principles 
of toleration, the rights of democracies—were specifically de¬ 
nounced, and their supporters delivered over to the Devil?” 

“Did he do that?” asked the priest, naively, and then 
laughed aloud as the porpoises leaped higher out of the water. 

Moberly came to his relief. 

“Those are the details of Catholic evolution,” he said. 
“What O’Hara’s church does—and I say it because the Epis¬ 
copal church in part does the same thing—is to show to the 
world a manifestation of divine power, flowing down through 
the ages; a consecrated priesthood, stretching back to the 
very Godhead of Christ, and beyond that back to Melchi- 
zedek, in the infancy of the world. By this means, the 
Catholic church keeps God in the world, and maintains his 
dominance in the hearts of her people. These were the claims 
that turned Froude away from religion.” 

“But I cannot admit,” said O’Hara, from whose vision 


80 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

the porpoises were now lost, “that the Episcopal church holds 
a like communion with God, his saints, and his angels. 

“That’s what you get for going over to Rome!” said Gor¬ 
don, taunting Moberly. “O’Hara claims exclusive salvation 
because he likewise claims exclusive communion with the 
eternal. I say it’s absurd!” 

Carrington laughed. “Alum in everybody’s baking-powder 
but ours!” he shouted. 

The trumpet now sPunded the call to dinner, and the soldiers 
of the Cross, together with Carrington and their Hebrew friend, 
at once forgot their controversies, and hastened to the table 
with appetites which good health and the sea had sharpened 
to voracity. 

They were only young men, and their religious animosities 
soon faded away, giving place to the diverting adventures of 
the voyage, until the desire for sleep, night after night, would 
send them to bed in the most cordial friendship, one and all. 

It was a strange coincidence that the missionaries were all 
going to the Zambezi, and that they had chosen native vil¬ 
lages, each for himself, which would make them neighbors. 

The voyage was finished without particular incident, and 
they at last found themselves debarked on the coast of Africa, 
with the barbarous wilderness before them, into which each 
one of them was going to carry to the unsaved a different con¬ 
ception of the Gospel of Christ. 

Before beginning their march, they called at the British 
camp and presented letters which procured them a respectful 
hearing before the commander-in-chief, General Snowden. 
That capable soldier examined their maps and perceived that 
the first village at which a stop was planned was Pondomesi, 
on the southern bank of the Zambezi River, two hundred and 
fifty miles inland, where John Partridge was to establish him¬ 
self as a missionary, the other preachers intending to locate 
themselves at other villages in the near neighborhood. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 81 

“You have chosen the most savage spot in Africa,” said 
General Snowden, “and the people there are the most barba¬ 
rous and ferocious. They would murder you all for an alli¬ 
gator’s tooth—and eat you into the bargain!” 

“Nevertheless, we shall go,” said Partridge. 

“Very well, but let me at least advise you to tarry here for, 
say, two weeks. By that time we shall send an airplane ex¬ 
pedition into that country to explore as well as to show those 
people what British soldiers can do to them when necessary.” 

“Oh, I beg you, let us go without military escort,” pleaded 
Partridge. “We do not need airplanes to save their souls.” 

“They have no souls!” answered the soldier, “but I will 
send Colonel Atwood with the airplanes in two weeks to look 
you up and see how you are thriving—if you still live. At¬ 
wood, keep that in mind.” 

“Yes, General,” replied the officer. “I know the place on 
the maps.” 

The little band would listen to no delay. Securing an es¬ 
cort of five natives in charge of an experienced guide named 
Hassan, all armed with guns and knives, and packing their 
simple belongings upon a camel and three asses, they started 
upon their long and tedious journey into the heart of the Dark 
Continent. 


CHAPTER XV 


Maneela, the black chief of Pondomesi, had won his place 
by many deeds of prowess against the fighting tribes who 
surrounded his own village. He commanded two hundred 
naked warriors, and today he had won a final victory over 
Menjekupo, the chief of the Samesi tribe, which had long 
annoyed his village by predatory attacks. He had maintained 
the fighting until the last enemy had fallen, except Menje¬ 
kupo, whom he retained as a prisoner. Then he assembled 
his people, men, women and children, upon the bank of the 
great river, and proclaimed a feast which lasted until all the 
bodies of his slain foes had been devoured. 

Maneela then gave orders to his lieutenant, Bonjalungo, 
to proceed with a sufficient guard to Samesi, and finish the 
work. Bonjalungo took with him one hundred men, raided 
the hostile village, seizing the live-stock and other possessions 
of his foes, killing the old men and old women and all the 
young children, and bringing home the girls of suitable age 
for wives. Menjekupo, the captive chief, was bound to a tree, 
and held for a later ceremonial disposition. 

The Witch Doctor made a new god out of clay and lighted 
a fire before it, and upon this fire a live pig, its feet tightly 
bound with thongs, was thrown, and the odor of sacrifice 
ascended into the branches of the trees, appeasing the evil 
spirits who dwelt there, ever ready to bring sickness and 
death upon the people. Maneela and all his tribe danced 
around the fire, making great shouts and beating their tom¬ 
toms weirdly, while the Witch Doctor, leaping high in the 

82 


FLAMES OF FAITH 83 

air and frothing at the mouth, howled his incantations before 
the clay image. When this ceremony had lasted for an hour, 
the Witch Doctor broke the god asunder with his hands and 
threw the pieces upon the fire. Victory and peace were now 
secure in Pondomesi. 

The captured girls were then brought into the open space 
in the midst of the village, and the Witch Doctor smelled 
their hearts to discover whether there was any purpose of 
murder in them. Finding by this process that they were all 
free from guile, he certified to Maneela that they were worthy 
of trust, whereupon the chief, having but five wives, chose 
two of them for himself, gave one to Bonjalungo, and 
the rest to his warriors, each of whom made his selection ac¬ 
cording to his taste. 

Maneela commanded the girls to go into the houses of their 
masters—rude huts, built of sticks and straw, with neither 
doors nor windows, but only an opening through which en¬ 
trance and exit could be made by stooping. When the cap¬ 
tives entered their new homes, each one was given a beating 
by the older wives as a lesson in obedience. 

The distribution of the captives had just been finished 
when a girl belonging to Maneela’s tribe, who had been gath¬ 
ering berries in the forest, came running in, almost breathless 
with excitement, and announced that a small company of white 
and black men, armed with guns and accompanied by a camel 
and three asses, was approaching the village. 

Maneela was entering his own hut when this information 
was given to him. The intending lover instantly became the 
warrior. Seizing his spear and the buckler of rhinoceros hide 
which hung on the wall, he called for Bonjalungo and fifty 
men, who, soon armed like himself, formed a column at his 
back, and after listening to a few words of direction, followed 
him in silence into the forest. 

Through trading with the English settlers who came up the 


84 FLAMES OF FAITH 

Zambezi to Pondomesi, Maneela had learned to speak English 
with tolerable facility, as had also his aide, Bonjalungo, and 
three or four others among his subordinates. If, therefore, 
the group which he was now going forth to encounter should 
prove to be Englishmen or Americans, he assured himself that 
he would have no difficulty in ascertaining their purpose. He 
determined to govern his conduct by their intent. 


CHAPTER XVI 


The little band of missionaries, led by their native guides, 
after ten days’ marching, found themselves in the heart of 
Africa, among a people of the purest negro type—with re¬ 
ceding forehead, high cheek bones, broad, flat nose, thick lips, 
woolly hair, and coal-black skin. As the travelers came 
nearer to the great river, they found the natives entirely un¬ 
clothed, both instinct and climate enabling them to go without 
apparel. 

The first settlements through which they passed were in¬ 
habited by harmless people, who had had more or less con¬ 
tact with white traders and were disposed to a peaceable life. 
When they had passed beyond these villages and proceeded 
into a deeper wilderness, they were warned that the next 
tribes were savage and barbarous, and would be apt to look 
upon them as interlopers. 

At the end of two weeks, one day when they had finished 
their noonday meal and were preparing to continue their 
progress, one of their scouts reported that he had seen a girl 
peering at them through the bushes, and that when he had 
accosted her she had run away with the speed of a deer. He 
gave it as his opinion that they would soon be attacked by her 
people. This communication threw the little band into anxious 
suspense. 

“What are we to do?” asked Father O’Hara. 

“We have five stalwart guides here,” said Carrington, “each 
armed with a good rifle. I have a revolver. The rest of you 
have your hunters’ knives and hatchets. Let us throw up a 

85 


86 FLAMES OF FAITH 

barricade of trees and brushwood and show them what we 
can do.” 

“What—kill these natives?” demanded Partridge. 

“Yes, certainly—kill them in self-defense if they attack us,” 
answered Carrington. 

But the missionaries one and all protested. 

“I will never consent,” cried Partridge. “We have come 
into their country to save their souls from Hell. What would 
be our position before Almighty God if, before saving them 
with the power of his gospel, we should ourselves send them 
to Hell?” 

“You are right,” said Gordon. “We have but one con¬ 
sistent course—absolutely—and that is—non-resistance.” 

“I wholly agree with that view,” assented Stanwood, and 
the others voiced the same opinion. 

“Do as you will,” answered Carrington, “but as for me 
I am not going to be massacred and eaten by these savages 
in the African jungle without fighting for my life! These 
guides know that if we are attacked they can expect no mercy, 
and they will fight on my side.” 

“I protest!” cried Partridge. “You are wrong, Arthur— 
morally wrong. Better by far to die ourselves, trusting our 
salvation to God’s mercy, than to have the sin of murder on 
our souls in slaying any of these natives.” 

“Do as you please,” replied Carrington, “but if we are at¬ 
tacked, I shall fight.” 

He drew his revolver from his belt and looked carefully 
to see that it was in perfect order. 

“You fellows,” he continued, addressing the guides—“will 
you obey my orders—will you fight?” 

“Yes,” said Hassan, their leader, patting his rifle, “if they 
attack us, we will fight—and each rifle is good for five of their 
spears.” 

“Very well, then,” said Carrington. “Get to work now— 


FLAMES OF FAITH 87 

every man with his ax. We can throw up a breastwork in 
no time.” 

The guides began to hew the young trees, which were soon 
falling in all directions. 

“Now—you gentlemen of the gospel,” continued Carring¬ 
ton, falling into a tone of friendly irony—“if you won’t fight— 
you will at least not refuse to assist in building our fort! All 
hands now—take hold of these trees and lay them one on the 
other.” 

Fired by his zeal, the missionaries found themselves obey¬ 
ing his orders like trained soldiers. 

“Draw up a lot of that brushwood,” he commanded, “and 
place it outside the logs. That’s right! We’ll soon have 
a four-square stockade. A few more trees, there, Hassan! 
These two sides are breast-high already.” 

In the course of an hour they had set up a stockade five 
feet high all around, with plenty of room inside for the whole 
party, including the four animals, and they then began to rest 
from their labors. 

The missionaries, however, were evidently depressed by the 
untoward turn which their enterprise seemed to be taking. 

“I don’t like it at all,” said Partridge. “We have come here 
for the sole purpose of saving a lost race, and now it appears 
that we are going to cause their death—and what is worse 
than death—their eternal perdition.” 

Carrington’s face was set with grim determination. 

“If they attack us,” he said, “I am going to fill Hell with 
them, as long as our ammunition lasts.” 

“It is a shocking situation,” commented Ambrose. 

But Moberly and Kaufman seemed inclined to approve of 
Carrington’s purpose. 

“Give them salvation if they will take it,” said the Episco¬ 
palian, “but if they will not—why, let us sell our lives 
dearly.” 


88 


flames of faith 

“I am with Carrington,” said the Jew. “Everything is justi- 
fled in self-defense.” 

“But we are intruders in their country,” exclaimed Part¬ 
ridge, in a last effort to move his friend. 

“This is the march of civilization,” answered Carrington. 

“They must pay the penalty.” 

“For what—for their ignorance?” 

“Yes—if you want to put it that way.” 

The controversy was suddenly stopped when Hassan cried 
“Hush—look there!” 

“What do you see?” demanded Carrington; and then, after 
peering through a chink in the logs, he answered his own 

question. , 

“Oh, ho! A pair of gleaming eyes in yonder bushes—ana 

behind them a small regiment of other eyes. Look out, boys! 
Duck your heads—Quick!” 

A spear came hurtling through the air and shot its way 
into the heart of the camel, which fell to the earth, dead. 

Carrington seized a rifle from one of his black followers. 
He had used it many times during their march in killing game, 
and he now took aim at the man who had thrown the spear. 
There was a sharp report, and the black savage fell writhing 
to the ground. A wrathful yell arose from the bushes, and a 
dozen naked warriors advanced into the open space not fifty 
yards away. They seemed to be forming for an attack, con¬ 
trolled by a leader who was not yet visible. 

“Speak to them, Arthur,” cried Partridge in mental anguish. 
“For God’s sake, give them a chance. See if they know 

English!” . 

“All right,” answered Carrington. And then without hesi¬ 
tation he sprang on top of the wall. 

“Can anyone there speak English?” he cried. 

Maneela came out from his cover. 

“I can speak English,” he said. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


89 


“Very well. We have come here as your friends. We want 
to do you a good service. We want to help you. Will you be 
friends with us?” 

“Is this a friend’s work?” answered the chief in broken ac¬ 
cents, pointing to his slain warrior. “We want no friends 
among the white men.” He then gave an order in a lower 
tone, and again a spear came flying through the air, barely 
missing Carrington’s shoulder and planting itself in a tree on 
the other side of the stockade. 

“Get that fellow, Hassan!” commanded Carrington, spring¬ 
ing down from the wall and again taking up his rifle. 

Hassan, who had kept his own weapon trained on his foes, 
fired as he was told. Again a savage fell and once more there 
was a yell of rage from the bushes. 

Maneela was now heard to give an order in his own tongue, 
in response to which Bonjalungo and the entire band sprang 
out from their concealment and advanced with quick steps 
upon the stockade. 

“Fire! All you fellows!” cried Carrington, picking off one— 
a second—and a third with his own rifle. “Give it to them!” 
And then he shocked the missionaries with his final order. 
“Give them Hell!” 

Hassan and his men were doing their part in stemming the 
attack, and their shots brought down four or five more of the 
barbarians. This deadly rifle fire was so unexpected and so 
terrifying that Maneela for the moment quailed under its exe¬ 
cution, and he ordered his men back into the bushes. 

“Let me speak to them,” pleaded Partridge. 

“Don’t be a fool!” cried Carrington, perceiving that his 
friend was preparing to mount the wall. But Partridge was 
already on top of the stockade. 

“My friends!” he called out in a loud voice. “My friends! 
I am sorry for all this. We are all sorry. We never meant to 
kill any of your men-” 

He sprang to one side just in time to avoid a spear which 



90 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

was hurled with such skill that it fell inside the wall, killing 
one of the guides. 

“Get down!” commanded Carrington. “For your life, get 
down!” 

“No!” cried Partridge. Then speaking again to the sav¬ 
ages: “You have killed one of our men!” There was a yell 
of exultation at this word. “I tell you we want to be your 
friends. Don’t you believe me? Then here is the proof! I 
am going to give myself into your hands!” And so saying 
John Partridge sprang down from the wall, on the outside of 
the stockade, and with his hands raised high in the air to 
show that he was for peace, he advanced toward the hidden 
savages. 

His friends behind the wall were dumbfounded at his act. 

“For God’s sake, John—come back!” cried Carrington. 
“You are going to your death! Are you mad?” 

Partridge walked forward with a dauntless purpose. 
When he had arrived at the hiding place of the savages, Ma- 
neela himself was too much astonished to do anything but 
gaze speechlessly upon the intrepid missionary. 

When Partridge reached the thick brushwood within which 
the natives were hiding, still keeping his hands raised, he said. 

“I have come here to bring the gospel of Christ into this 
country. I have come here to save you and your men from 
eternal perdition. Jesus died to save your souls, and I am his 
minister. I freely give myself into your hands. I want to 
make peace between you and those men in the stockade. Will 
you be my friends? Will you make peace?” 

Maneela stood up and looked upon the missionary with eyes 
of wonder. Then a look of cunning spread over his face, and 
he spoke a command to his men. Instantly some ten of them 
seized Partridge and drew him back into the bushes, a prisoner. 
The chief then gave a further order to his men, which was 
presently to have its effect. 

Carrington and the missionaries kept their eyes straight 


FLAMES OF FAITH 91 

ahead, in utter bewilderment as to the fate of their friend. 
Whether to charge out and attempt his rescue, or to await the 
course of the event, was a question which could not be in¬ 
stantly determined. Just then something else happened. 

Maneela had perceived that the astounding surrender of the 
missionary had diverted the people in the stockade from their 
own situation, and he had been quick to take advantage of the 
opportunity. The men beside him began to dance around the 
form of John Partridge, branishing their spears and yelling 
their unearthly war-cries, while Carrington and his friends 
looked on in helpless amazement. While the noise and turmoil 
in front were at their height, a body of the savages, led by 
Bonjalungo, had crept through the brushwood to the rear of 
the stockade, and now sprang noiselessly upon the back wall 
and over it, pushing one end of it down by the weight of their 
charge, and then, with a renewed yell, began an attack upon 
the guides. Before Carrington could reorganize his defense, 
they had killed all the native guides, except Hassan, who 
sprang upon one of the asses and sped upon the backward, 
trail into the forest. In the meantime, Maneela and the men 
with him advanced in front, and attacked the wall, while 
Partridge, finding himself free, sprang over it and rejoined his 
friends. 

The missionaries stood quiescent, but Carrington drew his 
revolver and shot down one of the savages. It was apparent 
now that Maneela had commanded that the white men should 
not be killed at this time, but Carrington’s act had so enraged 
his foes that two of them sprang upon him before he could 
shoot again and bore him to the ground. Maneela raised an 
ax and was about to strike the white leader, when John 
Partridge, finding his human instinct at last stronger than his 
theological restraints, plunged his hunting knife into the heart 
of the black chieftain, who fell dead at his feet. 

“Seize them all! Kill no more!” cried Bonjalungo. 


CHAPTER XVII 


When Maneela fell with John Partridge’s knife sticking in 
his heart, the savage band emitted a yell so full of agonized 
rage that it seemed to bode instant death for the white men. 
Arthur Carrington lay prostrate, held to the earth by three or 
four of the blacks. The rabbi and the missionaries had been 
deprived of their hunting knives and axes, and were likewise 
held fast in the grip of their foes. Partridge was a prisoner 
to two captors, who held their clubs aloft awaiting the order 
to dispatch him. 

But with Maneela’s death authority had now fallen upon 
Bonjalungo. 

“Stop!” he cried, using his own language and raising his 
hand with a gesture of command. “Do not kill any white 
man—not now! Take them to the village—and then—the 
torture!” 

This promise was greeted with an exulting cheer, and the 
prisoners were herded together in charge of a gloating guard 
of a dozen blacks who vented their hate by mauling and strik¬ 
ing them from time to time. 

The total possessions of the white men in the packs upon 
the two asses and the dead camel were appropriated by their 
captors, and transferred to the backs of the black men. The 
bodies of the four guides were loaded upon the asses for trans¬ 
portation to the village—a goodly addition to the meat supply 
of the tribe. The corpses of Maneela’s slain warriors, how¬ 
ever, were buried in a dense piece of brushwood and their 
graves leveled with the ground and disguised with moss and 

92 


FLAMES OF FAITH 93 

bits of plants, in order to deceive the men from other tribes 
who prowled at night to open fresh graves and eat their con¬ 
tents. The dead camel was dismembered and his edible parts 
apportioned among the black men for carriage back to the 
camp. 

All these arrangements were made under the direction of 
Bonjalungo, who was showing a quick capacity for business. 
During all this time the body of the dead chief had lain neg¬ 
lected where John Partridge had dispatched it; but now that 
all preparations were completed for the return to the town, 
Bonjalungo approached the corpse of his leader and began to 
howl his grief. His followers joined their cries to his and the 
forest resounded with their heathen lamentations. Hundreds of 
monkeys in the trees above them began to chatter in mimicry, 
while the parrots squawked and the owls hooted in a dis¬ 
mal chorus of noise. When this chant had kept up for some 
minutes, the howling ceased, and Bonjalungo gave the order 
to march homeward. Taking his place in front with two or 
three of his men beside him, he was followed by the white 
men, who were kept in line by their guards. Then came the 
two asses with their burden of human flesh, and after that 
the men with the packs and the camel 7 s meat, while at the rear 
the body of Maneela, resting upon the spears of his friends, 
was raised aloft and placed upon their stalwart shoulders. 
And so they marched. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


The white men had not spoken since the fighting had 
ceased, but now they began to converse with each other, their 
guards paying no heed to their talk. 

“A pretty kettle of fish! ” exclaimed Carrington. 

“It will not be a kettle of fish!” answered O’Hara, signifi¬ 
cantly. 

“Will they boil us all at once?” asked the Jew. 

Joking was evidently relieving the tension of their spirits. 

“Ambrose, you are an immersionist,” said Carrington. “You 
should have a kettle of water to yourself.” 

“But I do not like it hot.” 

“Do not these heathens believe,” asked the austere Stan- 
wood, “that they absorb the qualities of the people they eat?” 

“Yes,” said Gordon. “What a test of ourselves that will be 
when they have eaten us!” 

“The best way, after all, to get the gospel into them,” said 
Carrington. 

“But they will then strive against each other, as we do,” 
commented the Jew. 

“I wonder if we shall recognize each other after we are 
inside these savages?” asked Moberly. 

“Imagine me, Partridge, looking at you out of the eyes of 
a cannibal—and you another cannibal! said Carrington. 

Up to this time Partridge had uttered no word. His spirit 
was in too deep grief for banter. He had come to Africa 
to save the natives, and he had killed one of them and sent 
to Hell a soul which might but for him have been redeemed. 

94 


95 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

“I am willing to take my punishment/’ he replied. 

“Then why so downcast?” 

“Oh, can’t you see? I have killed a man—a man to whom 
this forest belongs! Making myself an intruder, I have be¬ 
come a murderer.” 

“Nonsense—I only wish you missionaries had each killed 
his man. We might then have got away with them. Hang 
it all—I hate to be done up by these black brutes.” 

“But this is not a white man’s country!” 

“No—I have certainly had enough of it.” 

“But it will become a white man’s country—in its govern¬ 
ment and order, and civilization—some day,” said the Jew. 

“It must become God’s country!” muttered Stanwood fer¬ 
vently. “Has he not made all the races of the earth of one 
blood?” 

“That’s a question from Isaiah,” said the rabbi. 

“Well, I can answer Isaiah,” replied Carrington. “He has 
not—I’ll tell the world, he has not!” 

“What are we going to do when we get there?” asked 
Gordon. 

“Get where?” 

“To the African village.” 

“Do you expect to be met by the Mayor and City Council— 
and the Marine Band?” demanded Carrington. 

“Oh, no—but can’t we devise a plan?” 

“Boiled alive—I think that’s all there is ahead of us.” 

“Even so,” said the grave Stanwood, “were not our Lord 
and his Apostles subjected to a like ignominious fate?” 

“No,” answered the practical Carrington, “they certainly 
were not. Boiling us alive will set a new record for an igno¬ 
minious fate. Their fates could not touch ours!” 

“Is there no stratagem by which we can escape?” asked 
Kaufman. 


96 FLAMES OF FAITH 

“Why should we escape?” demanded Partridge, and where 
should we escape to?” 

“To America—that’s good enough for me! cried Car- 


niiutuii. . r 

“No ” said Partridge. “We came here on a mission fo 
Christ.’ We came to save these very people. The event is in 
the hand of God. If they bring us to their villages as captives 
that is our only destination. There is no other place to go. 
In life or death, we belong to them.” 

“Not so for me!” said the Jew. “I am a looker-on. 

“I, too, am a looker-on,” said Carrington, disgustedly, and 
a fool’s errand it was for both of us.” 

“It is God’s will,” said Ambrose. 

“I won’t believe it. He never meant white men to be boiled 
alive for the delectation of black savages. If he did, he is 
no God for me!” 

“Arthur—Arthur—please do not blaspheme! 

“But Kaufman asks for a stratagem. You men say you 
have no wish to escape. That ends it—doesn’t it?” 

«Yes_it is God’s will,” replied the missionaries. Our lives 

are in his hand.” . , 

“But Kaufman and I-you will not dispute our right to 


escape?” 

“No—you are not missionaries.” 

Carrington’s manly smile came back. “Well, we’re not going 
to escape,” he said. “Not without the rest of you. We’ll sink 
or swim—we’ll boil, or sizzle, or roast—all together.” 

“I say amen to that!” agreed Kaufman. 

The procession had now reached the outskirts of the village, 
and the black men again set up their unearthly howling to give 
notice to their friends of the death of their chief. 


CHAPTER XIX 


The people of Pondomesi caught the note of tragedy as the 
cries of Bonjalungo and his surviving warriors smote their ears. 
They soon added their howlings to those of the returning party, 
as the column entered the village. The band marched on until 
the central clearing in the town was reached, and there the 
body of their dead chief, Maneela, was laid upon the ground. 

It was at once assumed by the villagers that the white men 
who were so carefully guarded as prisoners were responsible 
for the foul deed, and as soon as these suspicions were con¬ 
firmed by the gestures of the warriors, the people made enraged 
demands for the execution of the culprits. Bonjalungo com¬ 
manded them to restrain their wrath, promising that a proper 
vengeance should be exacted in due time. 

The white men were thereupon taken to an enclosure which 
was used for the six or seven cows—the common property of 
the tribe—a place without a roof, but with brushwood walls 
high enough to protect them from the attacks of the lions. 
One native sentinel was placed at each corner of the cow-pen 
to prevent the escape of the white men, and then the funeral 
of Maneela was celebrated. 

The Witch Doctor fashioned another god of clay and set it 
down at the head of the dead chief, while the people danced 
and howled in a delirium of grief, and the warriors cast their 
spears high in the air, catching them with great dexterity as 
they fell. The tomtoms were beaten by a company of boys, 
and the mourners joined in a wild and whirling dance. When 
the celebration had lasted for an hour, and many of the people 

97 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


98 

had fallen from sheer exhaustion, the food supplies were pro¬ 
duced—dried fish, berries, nuts, roots, rats, grasshoppers and 
locusts—and a feast was set for everybody. The dismembered 
camel was then distributed and eaten, and last of all, the bodies 
of the four native guides were brought in, hacked to pieces by 
the knives of the savages, and devoured. 

The white men, looking with horror from the cow-pen upon 
this scene, could only wonder what the next step in barbarism 
would be. 

“A fine lot of people for neighbors!” said Carrington, sick 
with disgust. 

“If you regard them as savages—yes,” replied Partridge, 
“but if you see them as the ignorant children of God, waiting 
for us to teach them better ways, then there is nothing but 
enthusiasm for us in their situation.” 

The other missionaries made similar comments, which only 
provoked Carrington to say that he longed for a chance to 
wash his hands of the whole business. 

The guards now brought some of the dried fish and berries 
to their prisoners, and when O’Hara and Kaufman had sur¬ 
reptitiously milked the cows, the hunger of the little group 
was appeased. 

In the meantime, Bonjalungo knew that there was another 
ceremony necessary before he could be permanently invested 
with the chieftainship. Menjekupo, the chief of the Samesi, 
was a prisoner, bound fast in one of the huts at Pondomesi. 
Bonjalungo alone had taken no part in the feasting except to 
witness it with exhilarated approval while his own hunger 
increased. When the tribe had finished their meal, Menjekupo 
was brought out, and the thongs cut from his feet so that he 
might walk, but his arms were kept bound to his side, and a 
leather rope was fastened to his body by means of which he 
was drawn forward by his captors, into the forest. The boys 
followed, beating their tomtoms, then came the Witch Doctor, 


99 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

with a live snake around his neck, and after him some thirty 
stalwart men of war, brandishing their spears, while last of 
all walked Bonjalungo, carrying a knife. 

The column marched onward through the forest with meas¬ 
ured tread until they had reached an open space beneath the 
trees. 

The crowd formed a ring round the two chieftains, who 
eyed each other with ferocious hatred. The Witch Doctor 
advanced upon Menjekupo and smelled him. 

He is a bad man!” he announced, speaking in his native 
tongue. “There is an evil spirit in him. I smell it. You 
need not fight him. We will kill him without a fight.” 

“No,” cried Bonjalungo. “If I am to be the chief, I will 
do all that Maneela did when he was chosen. I will fight 
him. If he kills me—he is to go free. It is the law of the 
jungle.” 

A shout of approval came from the warriors, and the boys 
beat furiously upon their tomtoms. 

The bonds were taken from Menjekupo, and a huge knife 
was placed in his hand like that which Bonjalungo carried. 

The two black giants advanced upon each other, their knives 
gleaming in the sunlight. Suddenly Menjekupo leaped into 
the air, seeming to come down upon his adversary like a wild 
beast from the trees; but Bonjalungo caught his knife upon 
his own blade and threw him off, stepping to one side before 
any wound could be inflicted. A joyful shout greeted this 
manoeuver. The two men then moved in a circle, each looking 
for an opening, when Bonjalungo made a spring, and seizing 
the right wrist of his foe, raised his arm to dispatch him. 
Menjekupo was not to be taken unawares, and as the knife 
descended he caught Bonjalungo’s wrist, and the two savages 
stood locked together in a clinch which it seemed death to 
break. . So critical was the battle at this moment that its 
deadly interest caused the spectators to cease from their shout- 


100 FLAMES OF FAITH 

ing, and the boys struck the tomtoms with scarcely enough 
force to make them sound. 

For what seemed a long time the two warriors held each 
other fast. Their hate increased as they found themselves 
so nearly of equal strength, and they glared at each other with 
the ferocity of wild beasts while each endeavored to get the 
better of his foe; but soon, by what seemed to be mutual 
consent, they cast each other off, and sprang backward, looking 
for a better advantage. 

Again they circled the ring, again Menjekupo leaped through 
the air, only to have his watchful enemy spring to one side, and 
then, as Menjekupo sought to recover his balance, Bonjalungo 
sprang upon him, seizing his knife hand, and grasping him in 
an embrace from which Menjekupo tried in vain to escape. 
As their faces met, the knife of Bonjalungo was driven into 
the back of his adversary, and Menjekupo fell dead. Bon¬ 
jalungo stood over him without a wound. 

The savage group uttered a shout of victory which echoed 
through the forest, and while the tomtoms were beaten in 
a joyous rhythm the whole company danced in triumph around 
the champion. The Witch Doctor uncurled the snake from his 
neck and placed it upon the dead man's chest. He then uttered 
certain incantations which caused the evil spirit to go out of 
Menjekupo and into the snake, after which he took up the 
reptile by the tail, whirled it around his head six or seven 
times, and threw it far away into the forest. 

While his followers surrounded him, Bonjalungo knelt down 
beside the corpse of his valiant foe. When night came they 
all slept. In the morning the escort ate of food which they 
had brought with them, but Bonjalungo, screened by his com¬ 
panions and comforted now and then by the Witch Doctor, 
maintained himself beside the dead Menjekupo. Another day 
was spent in the same way, the drums, and the dancing, and 
the chanting going on without ceasing. At the end of the 


FLAMES OF FAITH 101 

second day Bonjalungo rose up from the ground and gave the 
signal for return to their homes. Wild shouts of exultation 
arose from his followers. He was now indeed their chief, he 
had met every requirement of their savage custom, and they 
acknowledged him as their leader by throwing themselves upon 
the ground, kissing his feet, and then renewing their shoutings 
and noise. Bonjalungo had absorbed the strength and the 
courage of his foe and won his elevation to the highest 
authority by eating entire the body of Menjekupo. 


CHAPTER XX 

While Bonjalungo was thus undergoing the inaugural cere¬ 
monies pertaining to the office of chief, the missionary band, 
confined within the cow-pen, were left pretty much to their 
own resources. Bonjalungo had ordered that they should be 
constantly guarded, but this was done in a lax way, and the 
guards who were supposed to keep watch upon them night and 
day were frequently away from their posts in the daytime, and 
never there at night when the lions roamed. 

The prisoners were given sufficient food, such as it was, for 
it was significant that the natives meant to keep them fat. 
They had plenty of dried fish, fruits and berries, and were 
permitted to use what milk they could take from the cows. 
On the first day their guards brought them water from the 
Zambezi, but upon their giving promise that they would not try 
to escape during the new chief’s absence, they were permitted 
at will to leave the cow-pen and stroll down to the river. This 
soon set them to catching fresh fish, which added greatly to 
the enjoyment of their meals. 

While Bonjalungo had taken their weapons away from his 
white prisoners, Carrington had secretly regained his revolver, 
and had given his companions their hunting knives, and this 
gave to some of them, especially to Carrington, a sense of 
comfort in case it should once more seem necessary to defend 
their lives. 

“But it will not be necessary,” insisted Partridge when this 
eventuality was broached. “We gained nothing by fighting 
before.” 


102 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


103 


“Speak for yourself, John,” exclaimed Carrington, quoting 
Priscilla Mullens. “If these chaps start anything against us, 
I am going to kill a few of them first.” 

“We already have the stain of murder on our souls—I 
particularly.” 

“Look here, old man!” cried Carrington, “that’s because 
you killed the old chief. You saved my life. You don’t 
regret that, John?” 

“No—I don’t regret saving your life, and really I don’t seem 
to have a sense of guilt, yet the fact remains that I, personally, 
have sent one soul to Hell, unredeemed of Christ.” 

“Pray for him in the next world,” said the priest. 

“When we get there I shall pray for the release of all the 
souls that are in Hell,” replied Partridge. 

“We shall get there soon enough,” commented Carrington, 
“and when we do I am going to ask that they shall all be left 
down there for a thousand years.” 

The young men set to work to improve their prison by con¬ 
structing a separate apartment with a timber roof over it at 
one corner of the cow-pen. This gave them a certain amount 
of privacy, besides protecting them from the heavy dews which 
fell at night, and finally it insured them against a sudden 
attack from the lions. 

“I wish they would hurry and fix our status,” said Moberly. 

“The work of salvation cannot wait,” said Stanwood. 

“What better cause to die in!” exclaimed Ambrose. 

“A better cause to live in!” answered Gordon. 

“Education and civilization are what they need,” said 
Kaufman. 

“A British army first,” suggested Carrington. 

“The gospel of Christ—that alone is their need,” said 
Partridge. 


CHAPTER XXI 


The morning following the return of Bonjalungo, the body 
of Maneela, which during all these warm days had been kept 
on the roof of his hut, watched over by his wives, was brought 
down, and a deep and wide grave was dug beside the house. 
The Witch Doctor, his face horribly painted with red ochre, 
and wearing nothing but a necklace of alligator’s teeth, made 
a clay god and put it at the head of the grave. Then, while 
the tomtoms sounded, the people howled and danced, and the 
warriors threw their spears into the air. The Witch Doctor 
shrieked until he foamed at the mouth. The body was then 
handed down into the grave to the men who stood there to 
receive it. Then there was a sudden silence, and all eyes were 
turned toward Maneela’s house. 

“Bring forth his wives!” commanded Bonjalungo. 

The seven women were brought out, wailing and wringing 
their hands. Two of them were the young girls who had been 
taken on the raid at Samesi, and because of Maneela’s sudden 
expedition against the missionaries, had not yet been joined to 
him in marriage. They were therefore given to the Witch 
Doctor to become his property. The Witch Doctor approached 
the other five and smelled their hearts, and pulling one of them 
before him, declared in a loud voice that she was the best 
beloved of the dead chieftain. The woman screamed in mortal 
agony at this certification of her merit, but the war drums were 
beaten louder and the shouts of the men and the shrieks of the 
women rose higher as the funeral ceremony went on to its 
conclusion. 


104 


FLAMES OF FAITH 105 

The favorite wife was seized by strong men and handed 
down into the grave, and placed upon the breast of the chief, 
now three days dead. The other four women, manifesting 
their agony in the same way, were put into the grave and 
laid beside their master. Then, amidst the noise above, which 
was now grown furious in its tone and volume, earth and rocks, 
sod and grass, were hurled into the sepulchre by hundreds of 
willing hands, until the mound rose high above the level of 
the ground, and the living and the dead slept together. 

Bonjalungo now gave order that all the girls in the village 
should be assembled for his inspection. He as yet possessed 
but two wives, and, as chief of the tribe, custom would allow 
him others. They accordingly came together in great glee, each 
fondly hoping that the choice might fall upon her. The young 
chieftain passed up and down among these nude treasures 
of his tribe, uttering lewd comments upon them and taking 
such liberties as his wild fancy dictated, and after much care 
he selected two girls, rare in their physical charms, who by this 
act of choice became his wives. They now made their way 
to his hut, followed by the laughing salutations of their 
neighbors. 

Bonjalungo now decreed that in honor of his promotion his 
people should have a feast of monkeys. There was a glad 
shout when this announcement was made, for next to human 
flesh there was nothing so good to eat as monkeys—especially 
the brains, which were the choice part; but, while the forest 
was full of monkeys, they were hard to catch, particularly 
when so many of them were needed to feed all the people. 
While a stray monkey was brought into the camp now and 
then, it had been a long time since a monkey feast had been 
enjoyed. Fifty men were now appointed to bring in the 
game, and they made quick preparations for the hunt. Bows 
and arrows were got ready, and soon the hunters had gone 
away into the forest. Before nightfall they were all back, each 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


106 

with his share of the game, and the next day the monkey 
feast was served to all the men of the town, the women passing 
the choice morsels to the warriors, but getting no part for 
themselves. 

When the feast was finished at high noon, they all slept 
for an hour, and then came out of their huts to greet their 
chief. He promised them yet another excitement. He was 
going to heap Pelion upon Ossa. 


CHAPTER XXII 


When the monkey feast which followed the burial of Ma- 
neela was finished, Bonjalungo strode over to the cow-pen. 
The white men there had had but an indistinct sense of what 
was going on, as the crowd was so great that their view was 
entirely cut off. They did indeed suspect that some barbarous 
rites were being enacted, and they attempted more than once 
to force their way to the scene, but the guards, now disciplined 
and alert in the presence of their chief, prevented their egress 
from the prison. 

The chief was about to speak to his captives when a fright¬ 
ened shout arose behind him. 

“The lions! The lions! For your life—fly!” 

The young men in the missionary band sprang upon the 
roof of the cow-pen. While Bonjalungo stood proudly beneath 
them, beside the wall, leaning upon his spear, the people of 
the tribe, men, women and children, moved by an utter panic, 
ran at breakneck speed into their houses, seizing spears and 
knives to guard the entrance, and uttering cries of alarm. 

What had come upon the village so unexpectedly in the 
broad light of day? These objects sweeping through the 
village and across its green were not lions, but rabbits, and 
hedgehogs, and wild boars, all rushing forward in terror, one 
animal group after another; then a group of dik-diks, little deer 
no larger than a spaniel; then a herd of larger deer—and elk— 
and the wild buffalo—five or six giraffes—and a pair of ele¬ 
phants, trumpeting in their disturbed rage. In the trees above 
was a procession of monkeys, chattering in wrath and fright 

107 


108 FLAMES OF FAITH 

as they sprang onward through the foliage. There was a 
myriad of snakes, the smaller ones creeping along the ground, 
while the larger ones seemed to move with incredible speed 
among the branches overhead. 

Behind all this dislocated and terrified life of the jungle 
came the lions—twenty, a hundred, five hundred of them, as 
if in a concerted plot to feed all of a sudden on the whole wild 
herd of living things. When they reached the village they 
stopped—there was leadership in this grand army of the lions, 
and the king of the herd paused right in front of Bonjalungo, 
and roared. 

The roar was taken up by the grand army of lions, and a 
noise such as no man ever heard before arose in the forest. • 
The lion cannot roar while he is running. He must stand 
still when he uses his great voice. His roar starts back in the 
region of his flanks, far down in his body, and comes on up 
along his spine before it reaches his lungs, sounding at first like 
distant thunder, yet ever growing in force, and then changing 
into a volley of siege guns which seem to be fired directly 
behind your ear—siege guns that would break down the most 
impregnable wall. That is what one lion does, but here were 
five hundred lions, met together in the heart of Africa, stand¬ 
ing in front of Bonjalungo and the missionaries, and this tribe 
of lions roared. The noise began in their flanks, came along 
their spines, rose tremendously through their lungs, and then 
burst into siege guns at their throats, until every living thing 
in the forest quaked with terror—every living thing except this 
barbarian chief who leaned upon his spear, and the band of 
yrhite men who had come to Africa to save that chief’s soul. 

When the lions had completed their roar, and given it again, 
they continued to stand still as if they had reached a foolish 
anticlimax. Then the king of the lions sprang upon Bonja¬ 
lungo, before he could raise his spear, and bore him to the 


FLAMES OF FAITH 109 

ground. The rest of the pack, seeing that their leader had 
secured his prey, pressed on into the jungle. 

There was not a moment to lose. Carrington fired his 
revolver, taking no care as to whether his bullet would hit 
the man, but aiming only at the beast. Partridge sprang down 
from the wall, and plunged his knife into the lion as he fell. 
There was a sorry mess of it on the ground. The lion and 
the chief and the missionary were all struggling together, but 
the lion had got both the bullet and the knife stab; Carrington 
was now in the fight, and the lion was soon at the end of 
his reign. 

With the beasts gone, the natives came chattering from 
their huts, and found their chief on the ground with the band 
of white men tending him. Partridge sent them for water 
and dashed it into the chief’s face, while the natives strangely 
enough stood passively watching his ministrations. The chief 
had been knocked out by the first blow from the lion’s paw, 
but he was now recovering, and soon he opened his eyes and 
looked into the eyes of John Partridge, who was holding him 
in his arms. 

“I am going to kill you all now,” he said. 


CHAPTER XXIII 

These was a great shout of exultation among the natives 
when they heard their chief pronounce the judgment of death 
against the white men, and they began to dance around the 
cow-pen and hurl their spears aloft. The women were no less 
eager to witness the sacrifice, and they too crowded upon the 

enclosure which held their victims. 

“What are you going to do about it?” demanded Carrington, 
who was now back upon the wall and holding tightly to a 

revolver. . , _ , , ^ , „ 

“It is in the hand of God—absolutely in the hand of God, 

answered Partridge. 

“I shall make no defense,” said Stanwood. 

«Nor I—again I say, we did not come here to fight!” said 

Ambrose. . , , , 

“If God is with us, who can be against us. demanded 

Gordon. 

“We are soldiers of Christ, and his weapons are not the 
weapons of this world,” said O'Hara. 

“I will live or die by the will of God,” said Moberly. 

“I will fight beside Carrington if there is a chance,” said 

the Jew. 

“There is a chance!” cried the undaunted Carrington. I 
don’t know how it will work, but I am going to try it. I want 
every man jack of you to obey my orders on the instant you 
hear them. We may be able to pull this thing off without 
bloodshed, but it will take some quick acting on your part.” 
Bonjalungo now mounted the wall beside the white men 


IIO 


FLAMES OF FAITH 111 

and took his stand on the roof where all his people could 
see him. 

“Let my best warriors stand before me,” he commanded, 
speaking in his native tongue; and twenty of his men massed 
immediately under him. 

“Raise your spears!” he cried. They pointed them towards 
him. 

I am going to throw these men one by one upon your 
spears!” he shouted, “and the women will hack them to 
pieces with their knives. I promise you the best feast of all!” 

He turned and seized O’Hara in his strong arms. At that 
moment Carrington gave an order to the missionaries which 
they executed with so much precision and quickness that it 
produced consternation and fear throughout the whole tribe. 
Ambrose, Gordon and Stanwood seized Bonjalungo by the 
arms and shoulders and drew him backwards, while O’Hara, 
freeing himself from the barbarian’s grasp, and joined by 
Kaufman and Partridge, caught the chief’s feet, and held him 
helpless in their strong grip. 

Carrington pressed a pistol to his head. 

“Tell your people to fall back!” he cried. “Quick, now—or 
you are a dead man!” 

The discomfited savage gave the order. The shouting and 
the dancing and the tomtoms had all strangely ceased, and 
there was a dead silence in the village. 

“You have got to play fair now!” continued Carrington. 
“You are not going to kill us. You are not going to do us 
any harm of any kind. We are white men, and we won’t 

stand any nonsense like that. Just now we saved your life_ 

and you want to kill us! Well, you can’t do that. We will 
kill you the instant you try it. We want to be your friends. 

If you won’t have it that way we will kill you, and take our 
chances in a fight with your people. Tell them again to 
keep back!” 


112 FLAMES OF FAITH 

Bonjalungo, much crestfallen, repeated his order. It was 
a humiliating moment in the life of the new chief. 

Carrington had raised his eyes to heaven, and there he saw 
a strange sight-a sight which no black man in that forest 
had ever seen before. 

“If you raise a hand against us/’ he shouted, “every man, 
woman and child in Pondomesi will be dead in ten minutes! ” 
The people listened with fear and trembling as these words 
were translated from one to the other. 

“Look there—far off in the heavens!” cried Carrington, 
transported by the ecstasy of his discovery. “Do you see those 
birds? Do you see those giant birds coming this way?” 

The people and the missionaries followed his enraptured 
gaze, all astounded at what they beheld. 

“Do you see those birds drawing near?” he shouted. “Those 
are British birds! They are called airplanes. They have 
people in them—and guns—and bombs that will kill a thou¬ 
sand men!” 

“Do you hear them?” he continued, while the faces of the 
missionaries were lighted up like those of men who had seen 
the heavenly vision. They were all moved by transports of 
emotion. Stanwood cried aloud in a quotation from the 
Bible: “ ‘But we had the sentence of death in ourselves, that 
we should not trust in ourselves, but in God which raiseth 
the dead/ ” 

“Do you hear the whir of their engines? Do you see them 
circling around your village? Do you see them hovering over 
us? Do you see them dropping always nearer and nearer to 
the earth?” 

The natives were watching the astonishing visitation with 
wonderment and awe. 

“Let go of him!” cried Carrington, and the missionaries 
unloosed their grasp. Bonjalungo shook himself like a big 


FLAMES OF FAITH 113 

dog, and looked from one to the other of the white men to 
make sure that he was free. 

“Get down among your people and prepare to beg for 
mercy!” cried Carrington. 

But Bonjalungo stood still upon the roof, watching the 
British birds. 

The three airplanes whirled two or three times through the 
air, and then came to earth in the cleared space, stopping 
directly in front of the cow-pen. Colonel Atwood stepped 
from the fuselage of the first car, and came at once to the 
cow-pen. 

“What’s going on here?” he asked. 

“A whole lot of things are going on, Colonel Atwood,” replied 
Carrington, who now began to feel a sense of reaction after 
having made so close an escape from death. “These people 
were just going to kill us and eat us. This chief had just 
given the order to throw us on the spears of his men and have 
the women hack us to death. We stood him off for a while, 
but—by jove!—you got here just in time!” 

“The more fool you for coming!” cried the Colonel. “I 
told you not to,” and he laughed heartily, glad to find them 
alive. 

“They need a lesson,” he continued. “They need to know 
who we are and what we can do. We have to teach that to 
the natives everywhere. Then your civilization can follow. 
Here—you chief—what’s your name? Quick!” 
“Bonjalungo!” 

“Bonjalungo, eh? You have some cows here. Well, we 
are British soldiers—do you understand that—British soldiers. 
And these are British airplanes. One man here can kill your 
whole tribe. Here—I’ll show you how we do it. Drive one 
of these cows out there in the field—do you hear me? Be 
quick about it, too!” 


114 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

Bonjalungo gave an order and two of his men took the 
cow and drove her into a field, a hundred yards away. 

“Let me see, now,” said the Colonel, “lieutenant Harper, 
drop a small shell in the vicinity of that cow!” 

The officer thus commanded trained a gun at the spot desig¬ 
nated, and fired. There was an explosion near the cow, and 
in a moment the cow and the two men who had led her 

there were dead on the ground. 

Bonjalungo and his tribe were smitten with terror. Here 
was an engine of death and an authority back of it which 
broke his courage and his pride all at once. 

“Don’t do it again—don’t do it again!” he pleaded. 

“Let me have one of those bombs, Lieutenant Harper, said 
the Colonel. And taking it in his hand he held it close to 
the eyes of the stupefied chief. 

“If I were to throw this little bomb on the ground,” he said, 
“you and all your people would drop dead; and it wouldn’t 
hurt me or any of my men. We would just drop it from our 
machine—and you would die, and we would live! Now—you 
will do exactly what I tell you, or I’ll kill your whole bunch! ” 

He walked over to a machine gun and patted it with his 
hand. 

“Do you know what that is?” he demanded. “Well, that s 
a machine gun. Watch those trees now, and just imagine 
that the trees are your people. Now watch!” 

He turned the crank, and the young trees and all the brush¬ 
wood were shot away as if a scythe had cut them. 

“Have you seen enough, Mr. Bonjalungo? 

“Do what you will!” cried the chief. “We will obey!” 

The British Empire had conquered another jungle. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


Colonel Atwood turned toward the white men. 

“What is it you want to do, Mr. Carrington?” he asked. 

“I desire to return to America,” replied Carrington, “and 
Mr. Kaufman—this young rabbi, also. These other men are 
Christian missionaries. Mr. Partridge wishes to remain here 
at Pondomesi and do his work in this very tribe. The others 
have chosen other villages in this part of the country, not far 
distant from here.” 

“Very well—you shall all have your wishes. You and Mr. 
Kaufman can go back to the coast with us—provided you 
have no impedimenta. Mr. Partridge shall stay here. Do you 
hear that, Bonjalungo—Mr. Partridge—this gentleman—is to 
stay here. Treat him well. If you harm a hair of his head— 
we shall be back here and not leave a man among you to tell 
the tale. These other men—you will at once furnish a guide 
for each of them to his journey’s end. Do you understand?” 

“I will do as you say,” answered the chief. 

“Pick out the guides then—at once.” 

Bonjalungo assigned an escort to each one of the mission¬ 
aries, and within half-an-hour they had all said good-bye, and 
were off for their respective stations. 

“What brought you here?” asked Carrington, as these prepa¬ 
rations were going forward. 

“Hassan, your guide, escaped from the fight three days ago, 
and made his way on the donkey to the telephone station at 
Hintsa, where he communicated the affair to us at the coast. 


116 FLAMES OF FAITH 

We came at once—starting only this morning—and here we 
are!” 

Carrington took Partridge in his arms. 

“John,” he said, with wet eyes, “I am going back to America. 

Won’t you go with me?” 

Partridge, too, felt the tears falling. 

“No, Arthur. I have come here in response to the call of 
Jesus Christ. I am happy, and my work will succeed.” 

“I don’t want to discourage you, John—I won’t say a word. 
But if you ever want to come back to America and build a 
real church—I will give you a million dollars to do it with.” 
“What do you call a real church?” 

“I don’t know. I couldn’t describe what I mean. I don’t 
understand it myself; but don’t forget what I have said.” 
“God bless you. No—I won’t.” 

Carrington stepped in the fuselage with Colonel Atwood, 
while Kaufman, after saying good-bye to Partridge, got in with 
Lieutenant Harper. The airplanes then rose and made their 
way into the heavens, while Partridge and Bonjalungo and 
all" the natives gazed after them. 


CHAPTER XXV 


When the airplanes were at last out of sight, Partridge 
walked over to Bonjalungo and extended his hand. The chief 
made no effort to reciprocate his salutation, and Partridge put 
his arms around him. There was no fear in his heart. 

“My brother!” he said. 

Bonjalungo looked long into the inspired eyes of the mis¬ 
sionary, and then, won over by the sincerity of the other, gave 
him his hand. 

“I have come here to help you,” said Partridge. “I am 
going to work for you. I am going to make you happy—and 
make your people happy. Tell me that you will trust me. Tell 
me that I may do what I will.” 

“I will trust you. You may do what you will. When will 
you begin?” 

“Now—this moment. I want to learn your language, and 
I want to teach your people to speak English. May I do 
that?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then call twenty of the men and women here.” 

While Bonjalungo was giving this order, Partridge opened 
his baggage and took out a leather hunting shirt. When the 
chief returned with the chosen score of young persons, Par¬ 
tridge taught them the first English word. 

“Friend!” he said, indicating himself. Then he interpreted 
the word by pantomime, and made them all repeat it. Food 
was the next word—easily understood—and love, a little 
harder. Then came God in his Heaven—and the love of God— 

117 


118 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


who gave us good food—and who was our friend. And we 
were all friends to each other. In half an hour they had 
repeated all the principal words and understood their meaning. 
They were greatly interested in this first lesson. 

“I have a present for your chief,” he said. By this time he 
had so far gained their confidence that they smiled with the 
curiosity of children when these words were interpreted to 
them. 

He walked up to Bonjalungo, who had followed his teaching 
word for word, and gave him the shirt. The chief at first 
looked upon it with disdain, but when he saw that it was a 
handsome garment he put his arms through the sleeves and 
fastened its loops over the large buttons in front—and lo!— 
he was clothed for the first time in his life. And the shirt was 
so becoming to his height and dignity that his people uttered 
exclamations of delight. 

While they were admiring their leader in his hunting shirt, 
Partridge had gathered a quantity of the long, rich grass that 
abounded, and had plaited some of it into an apron. Ap¬ 
proaching one of the girls, whose name, he learned, was Zilda, 
he put this object around her waist and fastened it at the 
back. The other girls began to jeer her—it was such a gro¬ 
tesque misuse of the grass! But a very curious thing hap¬ 
pened. The girl with the apron became immediately more 
attractive to the men than were her unclad sisters—she had a 
higher value than they had. There was a rush of maidens for 
the grass plots, and soon every girl in the group was covered 
with these crude waist garments. The men who were looking 
on, now taking example from Bonjalungo, made aprons for 
themselves, at first in a spirit of mockery, but when they had 
donned them they quickly seemed to be contented to keep 
them on. This missionary was a wonder. He had brought 
the airplanes; he had told them about God in his Heaven; he 
had told them what food God wished them to eat and what 
they should not eat; and now he had taught them the secret of 


FLAMES OF FAITH 119 

attraction through the decoration of their bodies with a simple 
garment. 

Partridge shook the hands of all the people whom he could 
reach, and asked God’s blessing upon them. For their part 
they were all so far won by his manner and his talents that 
they would have fought to defend the man whose life this 
morning they had furiously demanded. 

As for Partridge, it was a day of gladness which nearly 
broke his heart. God had saved his life when it was about 
to be taken by a band of ravenous and naked savages. In a 
single day he had been able to melt their wrath and win their 
love, to clothe the nakedness of some, and plant the first seeds 
of the gospel in their souls. Now that the long voyage and 
the journey through the wilderness were ended, there was a 
reaction that overwhelmed his spirit. He had escaped a hun¬ 
dred perils, his friends had all departed, and a sense of loneli¬ 
ness and homesickness overcame him. He sought his bed in 
the cow-pen, and prayed—prayed in words of endless thanks¬ 
giving for the souls that were to be saved from Hell—prayed 
that his mother in far-off America might become conscious of 
his triumph in the jungle—prayed that Mazie might be re¬ 
deemed from her sinful life—prayed that he might be stead¬ 
fast in his mission—prayed for strength, and health, and 
understanding. “And O! You dear Christ!” he cried, in the 
anguish of his soul, “you feel—you do feel, Jesus, that you 
have not died in vain! You were alone in the garden, dear 
Jesus, and you wept in your loneliness, and you died on the 
cross in order that these poor people might be saved from 
Hell. And now, O Christ, you are permitting me to save them 
and to repay your agony and your death by bringing them 
to you! And now, O God,—give me Africa!—O Father— 
give me Africa!” And while these eager utterances came from 
his surcharged heart, the tears streamed from his eyes, until 
at last he fell upon his bed of grass, long after midnight, spent 
and exhausted, into a dreamless sleep. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


Partridge had brought with him a modern outfit for con¬ 
venient living, and in his baggage besides clothing were soaps, 
medicines, cooking utensils, an electric cooking apparatus, with 
batteries, some guns and pistols for hunting, and many objects 
that would contribute to his comfort and health. 

He arose early the next morning and walked out among the 
people. He spoke to them all in a friendly manner, which 
won their regard, and fraternized with the young men so that 
he could establish a reciprocal arrangement for the sharing of 
food supplies. When they caught fish they gave him a part, 
and when he made the catch he shared with them. After a 
while he began to take Bonjalungo and the sub-chief Nomilala 
with him into the forest, to shoot game for the common larder 
of the village—rabbits, squirrels, deer and other meat supplies. 
He gave one of the rifles to Bonjalungo and one to Nomilala 
and taught them how to use them; the advantage which these 
weapons gave the tribe in the procuring of game over the 
antiquated spears and bows and arrows delighted the people. 

He spent a full half of the time in teaching the natives, 
taking them in groups of twenty, giving a half-hour to each 
group, and then taking the next group in turn; his method 
of instruction was so engaging that his pupils all seemed sorry 
when the lesson ended. In teaching them English, he found 
that it was an easy matter to pick up a familiar acquaintance 
with their own tongue. 

There were two men in the village whose confidence he could 
not win. Bonjalungo seemed afraid that the missionary 


120 


FLAMES OF FAITH 121 

was going to steal his own popularity, and possibly his author¬ 
ity, and the Witch Doctor was quick to recognize that this 
man with his quiet methods was sure to undermine the cre¬ 
dulity of the tribe. Partridge treated both men with great 
delicacy and attention, and was careful not to give either of 
them any ground for open opposition. 

His first task was to teach the people a simple vocabulary 
of English words, and they were so eager to learn the language 
of the white men that they absorbed his instruction with 
avidity. After ten minutes of word practice, during which 
all mistakes were corrected with laughing good humor, he 
would tell them of God, and Heaven and Hell; and after their 
understanding had increased, he described Jesus to them— 
how he had been born into this world as the Son of God, how 
he had taught the people the gospel which he was now teaching 
to them, and how he had died on the cross in order that by 
his death all men might be saved. 

After he had made visible progress in this revelation, he 
broached the subject of baptism. He had not himself been 
brought up to accept immersion as the correct form, but he 
believed that immersion would be a more impressive method 
for these ignorant people, and he determined to use it, at least 
in the beginning of his work. He deemed it prudent, however, 
to explain the subject first to Bonjalungo and obtain his ap¬ 
proval before practicing the rite upon the people. However, 
when he opened the question, Bonjalungo immediately chal¬ 
lenged his entire story of the gospel. The chief had listened 
to every word that Partridge had uttered in his teaching, and 
had no hesitation in stating his views. 

“Do you mean to tell me,” he demanded, “that if I believe 
all that you say, I shall go to Heaven?” 

“Yes.” 

“And that if I do not believe, I shall go to Hell?” 

“Yes, absolutely.” 


122 FLAMES OF FAITH 

“And you say—what is it?—salvation comes from belief?” 

“Yes.” 

“If I believe what you tell me, I shall be saved?” 

“Yes—unless—” and Partridge hesitated. 

“Unless what?” demanded the warrior chief. 

Partridge was an honest man, but he was tempted for a 
moment to make no reservation in order that he might win 
this powerful leader to Christ; but on the instant he resolved 
that he would practice no deception or concealment of any 
kind. 

“If you believe what I tell you,” he said, “you will be saved 
at death, unless God for his own honor and glory shall have 
decreed in ages past that you shall go to Hell.” 

“Belief or no belief, he might still send me to Hell?” 

“Yes. But I will pray for your salvation, as I shall pray 
for the salvation of all your people.” 

“But what are your prayers worth, if he is determined long 
ago to send me to Hell?” 

“In that case, they would not save you.” 

“Where is Maneela—where are all my people who have 
died?” 

“In Hell.” 

“Because they have not heard your story?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then I shall go with Maneela and the rest!” 

And Bonjalungo turned from him in anger. 

One night when the moon stood high overhead, Partridge 
was walking through the trees toward the river, thinking of 
his distant home, and oppressed by the intense loneliness of 
his life in the jungle. Suddenly he heard the voice of a woman, 
pitched high in striving against the attentions of a man. He 
pushed his way through the underbrush and came upon Zilda, 
the young girl who had first worn an apron. At her side was 
Bonjalungo, who had been urging his affection until the fright- 


FLAMES OF FAITH 123 

ened girl was endeavoring to escape. Bonjalungo turned upon 
the minister. 

“What are you doing here ? 77 he demanded angrily. 

Zilda ran to Partridge and sheltered herself behind his stal¬ 
wart form. 

“Can I help you, my child ?’ 7 he asked, ignoring the presence 
of the chief. 

“I do not want to go with him—to his house ! 77 she said. 

“The women of this tribe are mine—when I want them , 77 
cried the chief, “and I have chosen Zilda . 77 

“But not if Zilda would be free , 77 answered Partridge. “Do 
you want to become his wife, Zilda ? 77 he asked. 

“No—no ! 77 she said. “He has wives now. You have taught 
me the religion of marriage. I do not want to go with him . 77 

“Bonjalungo—you will give her up—won’t you now ? 77 he 
asked of the chief. 

Bonjalungo glared fiercely at him. 

“No , 77 he shouted. “I am the chief here—not you—and I 
will have my will . 77 

“Not against her wishes , 77 pleaded the missionary. 

“Who respects the wishes of a woman ? 77 demanded the 
savage. “Go your way, and leave her to me . 77 

“I will not leave her if she asks my protection , 77 replied 
Partridge quietly. 

“We have had enough of you ! 77 cried Bonjalungo, drawing 
his knife. He caught Partridge by the arm and raised the 
weapon. “Will you go ? 77 he cried. 

“No—I will not—I cannot go ! 77 

The knife was started downward, when the minister seized 
the chief’s arm and arrested the blow. Partridge then caught 
Bonjalungo by both arms and held him in a grip from which 
he could not extricate himself. The barbarian had never met 
a foe so strong. 

“Let us be friends , 77 said Partridge, releasing his grasp. 


124 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


“Come, Zilda,” and he strode through the forest, taking the 
girl with him, and leaving Bonjalungo stupefied with chagrin 
and rage. 

When he reached the girl’s hut, he said: 

“Go in there, my child, and go to sleep. God will bless 
you and protect you.” 

The girl kissed his hand in docile obedience, then fell upon 
her knees, and looked up at him with her great brown eyes. 

“You have told us of love,” she said, while the moon threw 
its light on her face. “I do not want to marry these men of 
my tribe. I love you!” 

“Zilda, my child,” he answered, “the love that you speak 
of must never be for me. I have a wife in America. You like 
me because I have tried to be kind to you. You must always 
like me. Good night—no one shall harm you.” 

And he returned to his own house. 

For several days after this episode the missionary and the 
chief kept aloof from each other, but at last Bonjalungo came 
up to Partridge and gave him his hand, smiling. 

“You have great strength,” he said. 

“I will never use it against you,” answered Partridge, “ex¬ 
cept to protect both you and your people.” 


CHAPTER XXVII 

After a time, Partridge began to see that the chief was 
interested in his constant repetition of the gospel story, and 
one day he again brought up the subject of baptism, and 
explained its mysterious symbolism in washing away the 
stigma of sin. Bonjalungo at last consented to be baptized, 
and likewise to have his people undergo the rite if they so 
desired. 

Partridge prepared a class of twenty men and women and 
took them down to the river’s edge. The chief said that he 
would go first. As Bonjalungo reached the shore and waded 
out hand in hand with the missionary, the Witch Doctor 
forced his way through the crowd, and shouted wrathfully 
at Partridge. 

<( “What are you doing so far out in the stream?” he cried. 
“Beware of the hippopotamus and the alligator! You are 
a fool!” 

Nothing can touch the Lord’s people,” answered Partridge. 
He quoted from the final chapter of Mark: 

“He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved; but 
he that believeth not shall be damned.” 

Then, feeling inspired to take up the Witch Doctor’s chal¬ 
lenge as to the perils of the stream, he quoted further from 
the same record: 


125 


126 FLAMES OF FAITH 

“And these signs shall follow them that believe. In 
my name they shall cast out devils; they shall speak with 
new tongues; they shall take up serpents; and if they 
drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them, they 
shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.” 

After quoting these words, he cried out to those on the 
shore: 

“These are the words of the Bible. God has thus assured 
us that nothing shall harm those who believe and are bap¬ 
tized. Perfect love casteth out fear!” 

In a very solemn manner he conducted Bonjalungo into 
the waters of the mighty Zambezi until they were both 
breast-high. 

“My brother,” he said, “do you believe with all your heart 
that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the living God, and your 
Savior?” The chief nodded his head. He then, in the name 
of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, bap¬ 
tized him. When Bonjalungo came up out of the water he 
thanked the missionary for what he had done. 

The others were taken into the stream in the same way 
and immersed, Partridge leading each one into the river, and 
returning the baptized child of God to the shore as soon as 
the sacred rite had been accomplished. As each one started 
into the water, the Witch Doctor shouted his malignant 
imprecation. 

“Fool! Fool!” he cried. “You are making fools of the 
people!” 

When all in the chosen group had been baptized except 
Zilda, whom he had rescued from the attentions of the chief, 
he took her hand and led her out into the stream. 

“Fool! Fool!” shouted the Witch Doctor from the shore. 
Partridge whispered a word of instruction to the girl to 




hold herself 
water. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


127 


rigid when he should dip her body into the 


My sister,” he said, “do you believe with all your heart 

Savior?”* 8 ^ the ChriSt ’ the S ° n ° f the IiviDg G ° d ’ and y° ur 

Zilda raised her eyes until they met his, and answered: 

I do!” 


At that moment Zilda uttered a piercing shriek Part¬ 
ridge, divining too well what had happened, drew the now 
unconscious girl toward him and hastened with her to the 

shore; but she was dead before he could take her from the 
water. 


There was consternation and wrath among the people, and 
or a few moments it looked as if the missionary would be 
made to suffer for the accident. He had been so positive in 
his reliance upon the assurance of the Bible, that the natives 
were all the more enraged when his promises had gone for 
nothing. The Witch Doctor was clearly triumphant, and he 
was feeling out the sentiments of those near him as to whether 
an attack upon the missionary might be undertaken. Bon- 
jalungo and the class who had received their baptism inter¬ 
posed against the threats of the others, and the anger of the 
spectators began to subside. 

As for Partridge, his humiliation knew no bounds. Mortifica¬ 
tion overwhelmed him. He was stunned by what had occurred. 
What he had done he did because God and Christ had com¬ 
manded it. “He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved.” 
That was the word of God. “But he that believeth not shall 
be damned.” That was equally the word of God. He was 
obeying the Scriptures. He was here at great cost of body 
and spirit as a minister of Christ to save these people from 
their sins. They were as simple as children and had given 
him their confidence and trust. That awful threat of the 
Bible was plain. If he did not baptize them they would be 


128 FLAMES OF FAITH 

damned. And in baptizing them this poor girl had been 
killed by a monster of the waters. Yet in that very passage 
the believers had been promised immunity from any peril such 
as this. Moreover, the sense of God’s presence had been 
strong within him when the Witch Doctor had warned him 
of the alligators. He believed in his very soul that God was 
beside him in the waters. He would not move—he would not 
speak—without having God beside him! Then where was 
God when this awful thing occurred? Why had God per¬ 
mitted this innocent girl in her teens to die a horrible death in 
the very moment of her obedience to the divine command? If 
God had sent his spirit from Heaven in the visible form of a 
dove when Jesus had been baptized, why had he not shown a 
like control of this event? And why, above all other con¬ 
siderations, had God brought his mission into so much disfavor 
and permitted its probable destruction at the very outset of 
his work? These were the thoughts that crashed through his 
brain and prostrated his spirit as he stepped from the river 
with the girl’s body in his arms. 

However, he must meet the situation as best he might. He 
publicly expressed his deep sorrow for the accident, and 
declared that he had really believed it to be impossible that 
in the providence of God such a thing could occur. He told 
them that his grief was as great as theirs, and he asked them 
as a special favor that he might conduct Zilda’s funeral and 
have charge of the first Christian burial that had ever taken 
place in Pondomesi. The Witch Doctor made strenuous objec¬ 
tions to this proposal, but the people found their sympathies 
returning toward their missionary 5 they seemed to foresee by 
intuition that whatever this kindly and gentle man would do 
over the body of a dead person would be something better 
than the things which the Witch Doctor would do. 

Accordingly, a grave was digged, and the maimed body of 
the girl was laid down in it. The missionary then did a thing 


FLAMES OF FAITH 129 

which he had never heard of in the Christian church, yet 
which was specifically established in the Bible—he adminis¬ 
tered the baptism for the dead; after that, he read a verse 
from the Bible, and uttered a prayer that God would receive 
the wandering soul of this girl into his keeping. The earth 
was then filled in, and the crowd dispersed. There had been 
no dancing, no howlings, no tomtoms, and the awful sugges¬ 
tion of cannibalism had not been thought of. Something con¬ 
structive, then, had been gained. But why had God permitted 
this terrible thing to happen? Partridge walked over to the 
cow-pen and gave himself up to the anguish of his soul. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


On the next day, Partridge was sick at heart and unable to 
continue his teaching. He hunted and fished instead, and 
gave all his game to the people, wishing to minister to their 
physical wants as far as possible; but on the following day he 
had recovered his poise and resumed his work of instruction. 
He spoke again with great frankness of the accident in the 
river, and told them that he would in the future baptize them 
solely by sprinkling, and this he proceeded to do, baptizing 
some forty more of them in a solemn ceremony in front of the 
cow-pen. He then went into the forest after more game. 

He was much encouraged to find that the people of Pon- 
domesi were very gentle and docile by nature, and as fast as 
he could win them to a belief in the gospel of Christ he felt 
sure that he could turn them in a corresponding degree from 
the barbarous superstitions of their tribe. 

There was one subject, however, which gave him much 
anxiety, and that was the practice of polygamy which pre¬ 
vailed without exception throughout the town. Morality, as 
it was understood in a civilized community, was unknown 
in this jungle settlement. Impulse was the sole guide to con¬ 
duct. When a youth became old enough to fight—and this 
was usually at fourteen—he was permitted to choose for his 
wife any woman who was still free. When his fancy dictated 
it, he chose another wife, and he could retain or trade the first 
wife, or any subsequent one. 

Partridge had spoken on this subject to Bonjalungo, telling 
him of the practice in Christian countries, but had been so 

130 


FLAMES OF FAITH 131' 

quickly rebuffed that he deemed it not prudent to press the 
matter at this time. He comforted himself with the reflection 
that God had permitted the universal practice of polygamy in 
all civilizations, and particularly in the civilization of his 
chosen people, the Jews, during many centuries, and he con¬ 
vinced himself that he might postpone any direct attack upon 
this institution until he had won a larger favor for the gospel 
in general. While he made no effort to change the marriage 
conditions which were already established, he was able to 
prevail upon some of the young men and women who desired 
to wed to be married according to the Christian ceremony as 
administered by him, and in many such cases he exacted a 
promise from them that they would be true to each other in 
a single marriage. 

Weeks and months passed, and during that time he had 
made steady progress in winning the people to the gospel of 
Christ. With the exception of the Witch Doctor he had 
baptized every man, woman and child in Pondomesi. 

His greatest difficulty was in making the people believe that 
God was a father and a spirit who abided always in their 
lives. Some of them were all too willing to refute his argu¬ 
ments by opposing him with the incident of the fatal baptism. 
Others demanded occular proof of the nearness of his deity. 
Many indeed went secretly to the Witch Doctor, whose pal¬ 
pable and visible charms, amulets, sorcery, and ritual of magic 
held them captive against the unseen and unknown God whom 
he was preaching unto them. But he was not discouraged, 
for had not Jesus himself met the same unbelief and the same 
rejection in his ministry? The great majority of the populace 
followed his instructions with reasonable fidelity, while they 
continued to give him their unfeigned confidence and affection. 

Every morning he called the people to a devotional service 
lasting thirty minutes, when he would read and interpret a 
short passage of Scripture, talk to them briefly of God and 


132 FLAMES OF FAITH 

his only begotten son Jesus, and pray for their spiritual and 
bodily welfare. On Sundays the same services were held, but 
in a more extended and formal manner, while a Sunday School 
was inaugurated for the teaching of the children. He endea¬ 
vored to secure the observance of Sunday as the Lord’s Day, 
to be marked by the cessation of all work and play, but the 
deadly monotony of life in the jungle made it impossible for 
the people to make any distinction in their conduct on that 
day. He urged them to refrain from hunting and fishing, but 
with slight success. In the end he found his religious pro¬ 
gram on Sunday morning was all that he could exact from 
them in the way of any special recognition of that day. 

Partridge began to impose some curious questions upon his 
own soul. At what moment in his ministry was each soul saved 
from perdition? Belief would not do—it must be an under¬ 
standing belief. Were these simple and ignorant creatures 
capable of forming an understanding belief? At what instant, 
during the passage of instruction from him to them, did the 
omnipotent God enter their names in his holy records as among 
those whose destinies were to be transferred from Hell to 
Heaven? And those who listened to him and were saved— 
when they went secretly to the Witch Doctor, were they again 
lost? Did God really keep an accurate and jealous eye upon 
this little jungle village, and vary his judgments of the people 
with the shifting sensations which marked their religious 
habits? There was but one answer. God would judge them 
according to their belief! 

The airplanes visited the village about once in every four 
months, and gave signal warning that the British Empire ex¬ 
tended its protection over this missionary. They brought 
letters for Partridge from America, and carried back his 
replies. His mother wrote of his work in glowing terms of 
approval and encouragement. She was praying for him all 
the time. She knew that God was with him—God had always 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


133 


been with him—and would surely prosper his work. She sent 
her love and wished that she might be with him. He must 
tell her of everything that happened. The missionary board 
had already received his preliminary reports, and had told her 
that they felt assured of his abundant success. 

Carrington wrote that he was absorbed in the practice of 
corporation law. He spoke of his affectionate concern for 
Partridge’s health and safety, and expressed a wish that he 
might soon accomplish the conversion of the whole tribe of 
cannibals* and then come home to America. “And don’t for¬ 
get,” he said, “the offer I made to you that day in the jungle.” 

These letters brought a great homesickness upon him. 
When he had written his replies and dispatched them by the 
airplanes, and found himself once more alone with an alien 
race, he retired to the cow-pen and poured out his soul to God 
in prayers and tears that lasted through the night. 

In order to divert his mind from the increasing monotony 
of his task, he announced to Bonjalungo that he desired to 
make a tour of the other missionary stations where his friends 
had planted their work, and as the chief consented, he set out 
on Monday morning on a round of visits. Taking a reliable 
map, and carrying his rifle, revolver and knife for protection 
against the beasts of the jungle, he made his way along the 
river bank for twenty miles, where he found Stanwood at 
Ebolowo, a small settlement of two hundred natives, all clothed 
in a manner similar to the people of his own village, and 
growing day by day into a closer agreement on Presbyterian¬ 
ism. The conditions there were much like those at Pondomesi 
—the chief holding aloof, the Witch Doctor insidiously at work 
in the background, and the people in general following the 
instructions of the missionary with unquestioning fidelity. 
Stanwood was rejoiced to see his friend, and they held a 
prolonged conference concerning the difficulties and complex¬ 
ities of their work. The Presbyterian seemed to be burning 


134 FLAMES OF FAITH 

up with zeal, and stated that God was assuring him constantly 
of the transfer of souls which he had snatched from the 
companionship of the damned. 

After a night spent at Ebolowo, Partridge bade his friend 
good-bye, and continued his visits for the rest of the week to 
his other fellow travelers. Ambrose, the Disciple, was much 
interested in his experiments in baptism, but chided his friend 
for abandoning immersion. The accident to the girl, he 
averred, had been sent to try his fortitude—he was sure the 
Lord would not again have permitted a tragedy. He himself, 
fortunately, had located his mission inland, at Lechulati, on 
a small lake, where there was no life but fishes, and his record 
of immersions embraced the entire adult membership of the 
village. Best of all, he had driven out the Witch Doctor, 
and there was no opposition from any quarter to the gospel 
of Christ as Christ had delivered it to the Apostles, including 
the rite of immersion. 

Gordon, the Methodist, gave a similar story of success in 
his mission, at Nequasha. Moberly, the Episcopalian, was 
doing tolerably well at Katokus, but he had not been able to 
induce his charges to put on clothes. Partridge volunteered 
to help him in this difficulty. By using the same methods 
which had succeeded so well at Pondomesi, he prevailed upon 
the people here to put on grass-cloth aprons, which added 
greatly to Moberly’s peace of mind. 

The Irish priest, O’Hara, had set up a Catholic church at 
Diko, where three hundred people had become devout wor¬ 
shipers of his system, but there was no fellowship between 
him and Partridge, and the visit lasted but a few minutes. 

Partridge got back to his own station by Saturday night, and 
was welcomed home by the entire populace with a warmth of 
greeting that delighted his heart. Sunday morning found him 
surrounded by his congregation. He poured out to them all 
the rich blessings of the Christian faith. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


When a year had passed, Partridge began to think of a visit 
to America. His little flock seemed now to be firmly estab¬ 
lished in the faith which he had taught them; but there was 
one thing lacking to their comfort and health which he could 
not supply, and that was the science of medicine. He knew 
the homely remedies for the everyday ills of such a com¬ 
munity, and he ministered constantly to their necessities, even 
in the birth of children. But when epidemics came, or when 
the Witch Doctor tried his tests of poison on the people, or 
when surgery was required, Partridge felt himself helpless and 
inadequate; and he had a secret desire to go home, take an 
intensive course in medicine, surgery and dentistry, obtain a 
supply of medicines, see his mother and his friends, and then 
return to his flock with renewed consecration and a larger 
service. 

He had indeed written to Carrington as to the feasibility of 
getting one or two doctors to come over, but his friend replied 
that it was impossible to induce good men to sacrifice them¬ 
selves in the African wilderness. 

He opened the subject to Bonjalungo, who really regretted 
to have him leave the settlement, but said that he would not 
oppose it. The people, however, were sincerely distressed when 
they learned his purpose. They had come to love him, for 
he was gentle and lovable, and his usefulness and influence had 
made him such a power in their lives that they viewed his 
prospective departure as a calamity of the gravest proportions. 

On his last Sunday, when an airplane had arrived, he 
*35 


136 FLAMES OF FAITH 

charged them to keep the faith and conduct themselves as 
children of Christ who had been redeemed by his blood and 
saved from Hell by his love. He told them once more the story 
of the cross, with an eloquence and passion which he had 
never before attained. So great was the transformation which 
he had made in their natures that instead of howling and 
dancing as they had done in the olden days when the Witch 
Doctor had stirred their emotions, they now wept quietly as 
they absorbed his tragic picture of Calvary. He then told 
them that he was going back to his home in far-away America 
—to see his mother—and here his voice choked—there was a 
pause, but after a moment his face brightened, and he spoke 
of another topic. 

When they were sick, he said, he took care of them as best 
he could, but there was much that he did not do for them 
because he did not know how, and he was going to a great 
school to study medicine and surgery, and at the end of a 
year he would come back, not knowing all, but knowing a 
great deal more than he did now. He knew he could then be 
a more useful friend, make their lives much happier, and keep 
their health much better than he could now do. 

Raising his artns to Heaven, he asked God to keep this little 
flock in his especial care—to love them—to guard them from 
error and from evil of every kind—to protect their health— 
and to preserve them in the faith of Jesus Christ. Then, wip¬ 
ing his eyes, he stepped into the airplane, waved his hands in 
an affectionate adieu, and while they pressed around him and 
wept like children just bereaved of a parent, he rose up high 
above the trees of the great forest and vanished into the 
heavens. 


CHAPTER XXX 


Partridge’s year in America sped by all too quickly. He 
spent a few days at Renshaw, in a happy reunion with his 
mother, who was absorbed in the stories of adventure and 
human experience which he had brought home from the Dark 
Continent. 

The churches called him constantly to their pulpits, and 
not a Sunday came but found this missionary describing the 
great harvest field where souls were waiting in myriad thou¬ 
sands to be won to the gospel. 

He applied to a great institution in New York, and was 
accepted as a special student in medicine and surgery. Why 
not? Had not Alexander Hamilton absorbed a four-year 
course at Columbia College in two years? Partridge’s peculiar 
case had won the instant attention of the officials and staff, 
and they consented that all rules should be waived in order 
that this missionary might receive in the briefest possible 
time his equipment of instruction in medical and surgical 
science. Long ago, in his college days, he had mastered 
chemistry, anatomy and physiology, giving him the funda¬ 
mentals of his present task. He attended all lectures and 
clinics, and worked prodigiously at his text-books. He ac¬ 
companied the doctors in their attendance upon particular 
cases, and as soon as he dared to do so, he performed the 
lighter work which they required of their assistants. He 
learned rapidly the principles of the materia medica, the treat¬ 
ment of fractures, and the use of serums of all kinds. Night 
and day he applied himself to his task, and at the end of the 

137 


138 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

year, after taking an examination, he was given a special 
diploma as a doctor of medicine. He outfitted himself with 
medicines and instruments with which to continue his minis¬ 
trations at Pondomesi. 

He called frequently upon Carrington, who, enormously rich 
through his family, was making a great success in the law, and 
had much to say of Africa and of the adventures they had 
encountered there together. He was deeply interested in 
Partridge's work—was touched by the devotion of his friend 
to the barbarous tribe—said much to encourage him—but 
once again asked him not to forget his offer. 

“What do you mean by a real church?" demanded Part¬ 
ridge. 

“I don't know. I couldn't define it if I tried—and I have 
tried! But of this I am absolutely sure—there is not a real 
church in the world today—not one!" 

Partridge dropped the subject. 

When the time came for his departure he made a round 
of farewells—to the medical college and its staff, to Carring¬ 
ton, and to his mother. Then the ship. 

Arrived on the coast of Africa, he once more employed guides, 
a camel, and asses, and with his important and costly stores, 
which included sundry gifts and trinkets for every member 
of the tribe, he started for Pondomesi. The journey of two 
weeks brought him one morning into the vicinity of the town. 
Wishing to make the entry alone, for the joy of his return with 
all its promise of larger work was something that he could not 
share with strangers, he bought the camel and two of the asses 
for a fair price, and dismissed his guides, paying them in good 
measure. Pie then knelt in the solitude of the wilderness and 
thanked God for bringing him back to help these poor people 
to rise to a better life, and asked for divine strength and guid¬ 
ance. Rising, he led his beasts into the town, and finding the 
place strangely vacated, stabled them in the cow-shed, and 


FLAMES OF FAITH 139 

began to unload their packs. He had just started with this 
work when his attention was arrested by the noise of a chant. 
Looking up he saw a sight which rooted him with astonishment 
to the spot. Coming through the trees at the farther end of 
the open space were all his people, singing a religious chant as 
they marched in an orderly and solemn procession. At the 
front was Bonjalungo. Behind him were a score of boys, 
swinging censers. Then there was a white man in an unac¬ 
customed garb, holding aloft an object which he could not 
at first make out. Then came the people—men, women and 
children, all absorbed in the procession and the song. As they 
drew nearer to the cow-pen, he saw that the object was a large 
crucifix bearing the body of the dead Christ, and the man who 
carried it was the Irish priest, Father OTIara. Behind this, 
on a raised platform, other men carried the effigy of the 
Virgin, fully dressed in all the habiliments that a woman would 
wear. 

Off to the right of the cow-shed Partridge saw for the first 
time a new structure, roughly put together, made of logs and 
branches, and consisting of a narrow roof, supported by posts. 
Under the roof, fully exposed on all sides, he beheld a rude 
altar with burning candles. Over the altar was a box, with a 
light burning before it. The people knelt while the crucifix 
was placed beside the altar on the one hand, and the effigy of 
the Virgin was deposited on the other. Father O’Hara began 
the celebration of the mass, the people uniting with him in 
uttering the prayer: “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is 
with thee!” A hundred times they said this; and then they 
all bowed their heads while the priest opened the box and 
elevated the host. All but one, for at the back of the crowd 
was the Witch Doctor, with a look of cunning devilment in his 
eyes as he alone beheld Partridge. 

When the mass was concluded, they arose and then, one 
after another, they recognized John Partridge, but there was 


140 FLAMES OF FAITH 

no sign of greeting. Father O’Hara professed not to see him. 
The others looked upon him with a sort of impertinent curi¬ 
osity. At length Bonjalungo came over to him and spoke 
coldly, and without the slightest sign of friendliness. . 

“Things have changed since you were here,” he said. He 
began his speech very quietly, but took on a tremendous force 
and energy as he proceeded, finishing his declaration with 
withering sarcasm and contempt. “Father OHara is our 
missionary now. You did not tell us right. You told us God 
was in the heart. And we could never see him. You said we 
could only feel him. But look there! God—his body—is 
there! God said it—This is my body! You did not tell us 
that. You see those little statues? Those are the saints. Why 
did you never tell us about the saints? The saints speak for 
us when we need their help—they take care of us. When we 
have sore throats, this one. When we lose anything, this one. 
When the thunder crashes over us, this one. Why did you not 
tell us? This is the oldest church—the only one! God is 
here! This is my body! The King of Heaven and Earth. 
And here—the Blessed Virgin—the Queen! And here on the 
cross is Jesus. You never taught us the prayer to the Blessed 
Virgin. You never brought us the crucifix with Jesus on it. 
And these beads—why did you not give us these prayer beads 

_ a bead for every prayer? And this—that he has placed 

around our necks-this medal—Jesus and the Blessed Virgin! 
We have God, and the Blessed Virgin, and Jesus and all the 
saints-—here with us—out of Heaven all the time. Heaven 
and earth are united. This is the religion that makes my peo¬ 
ple happy. And we want no more of you! ” 

Partridge looked long into the chief’s eyes, but there was no 
relenting there. And there was no possibility of controverting 
the things the chief had declared. He then walked past Bon¬ 
jalungo, and stood face to face with the priest. 

“While I was in America,” he said, “I fitted myself for 


FLAMES OF FAITH 141 

medical and surgical work. I have everything here—medicines, 
serums, instruments—things of comfort for these people. I 
would like to stay here and work among them.” 

“It is impossible, Mr. Partridge,” replied the priest. 

“I cannot stay?—as a physician only?” 

“No” 

Partridge looked helplessly around the camp. There was 
not a face there that gave him hope. On the ground back 
of Bonjalungo was the Witch Doctor, gloating with malignity 
as his eyes rested on Partridge. 

Without another word Partridge returned to the cow-shed 
and restored to the backs of his beasts the things that he had 
taken off. Then, mounting the camel, and with the halters 
of the two asses in his hands, he left the village, while all the 
people stood silently by and permitted him to make his way 
alone into the trackless forest, without a friend in Africa. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


As Partridge rode away from Pondomesi he was so far sunk 
under the overwhelming disappointment of the morning that 
he paid no heed to the direction in which his beasts were carry¬ 
ing him. He only knew that he was in a jungle in the heart 
of°Africa and that he had been despised and rejected by the 
people to whom he had meant to dedicate his life. The 
monkeys chattered in the branches above him, shrieking their 
ejaculations to each other as the man and his beasts passed 
beneath them. Huge snakes uncoiled themselves from the 
trunks of trees and shot their startled heads in front of the 
lonely rider. Rabbits, deer and antelope sprang away from 
him in every direction. Birds of brilliant plumage fluttered in 
the air, and then flew away. Once the asses flung themselves 
upon their hind legs and the camel stopped and cried out in 
terror when the gleaming eyes of a lion peered at them from 
the bushes; but the king of beasts made no attack, and the 
man resumed his march scarcely aware of a perilous interrup¬ 
tion. Thus he went for an hour of listless and pointless wan¬ 
dering and of dull and deadly subconscious perception. There 
was no thinking, no planning, no resolution to a new purpose. 
Something had happened which seemed to have cut him out 
of the scheme of human life. Even the savages would have 
no fellowship with him. Then he hoped that his life might 
be swallowed up in the jungle, and that his existence might be 
absorbed by whatever act of nature would be required to make 
him a part of the unconscious universe. 

After a long time, his brain cleared. What was the cause 
142 


FLAMES OF FAITH 143 

of this terrible episode? He had dedicated his life to God. 
The Bible told him that the world must be saved. He had 
promised God that he would save his share of souls, and after 
all his consecrated endeavors—after the good start he had 
made—the whole enterprise had failed miserably, and he him¬ 
self was an outcast in the desolation of a trackless jungle. 

Why had God permitted this shame to come upon him? Why 
had not God preserved his work while he had been moving 
Heaven and earth to acquire this needed skill in medicine? 
Where was God anyway? Then he asked himself with sar¬ 
castic wrath: Had Father O’Hara really given them a better 
religion, as the barbarian chieftain had declared? Why not? 
Better things usually succeed worse ones—all history seems 
to demonstrate that! Was his system a worse one? What 
proof had he that his simple message of God in the heart 
was more potent than the visible testimonies which had so 
palpably supplanted his cause? Even the Witch Doctor, who 
had rejected his gospel with contempt, had accepted the other 
teaching with a certain kind of approbation. And why not? 

He recalled the ancient stories of the Jews—how they had 
been attracted by the visible image of the deity, and there 
was an instant in that jungle pilgrimage when he felt like 
going back to Pondomesi and surrendering his faith to Father 
O’Hara and Bonjalungo, and of petitioning humbly for per¬ 
mission to minister to them as a physician who accepted their 
ancient system of faith. They should not turn him adrift! 

But it was only for an instant. Fie would not yield! God 
was a spirit, and they that worship him must worship him in 
spirit! He was making a weakling of himself—breaking his 
heart over his first failure. He was unworthy to be a minister 
of Christ! What booted the loss of Pondomesi? Here was 
the whole of Africa before him. 

At that instant a lion stood in his path, making his beasts 
rear and cringe in terror, so that he was thrown from his seat 


144 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


on the camel and found himself on the ground confronting the 
king of beasts. He fired his revolver-three, four, five times- 
and then sprang in with his knife, and ripped his foe from his 
neck to his bowels. When it was over he lay panting for a 
long time-the lion on top of him-and he was unconscious for 
a few minutes. Then he arose and wiped the blood fiom his 
chest where the beast had clawed him-resumed his seat on 
the camel, and pushed on-resolved still to conquer Africa. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


Partridge had now found himself again, and he began at 
once to reorganize his life. The failure of his mission at 
Pondomesi might have been imposed as the penalty for his 
killing of Maneela. He had slain the chief, and the Lord had 
taken the tribe away from him. He saw the folly of assuming 
that there was no share of the world’s work for him, and he 
determined to find that share immediately. 

He had maps with him, but they were packed away in his 
baggage and not easily accessible. He had no idea where his 
beasts had carried him, but he had been traveling now for 
three hours, and the instinct of the camel led her to seek water. 
It was not long before he found himself at the bank of the 
Zambezi, where his beasts and himself were soon refreshed from 
the great stream. This done, he traveled on for another hour 
and found himself at Stanwood’s mission. 

The Presbyterian greeted him cordially and asked the mo¬ 
tive for this unexpected visit. Partridge told him the whole 
story, and then proposed that they should unite their ener¬ 
gies in the further progress of the gospel work. Stanwood’s 
face clouded. 

“I don’t see how we could do that,” he said. 

“Why not?” 

“Well—let us be candid about it. We are all Presbyterians 
here. Any other doctrine would impair the purity of the 
instruction I have given these people. It might engender 
doubts—skepticism. Take your own experience at Pondo¬ 
mesi ; there you have the result of two conflicting systems.” 

145 


146 . FLAMES OF FAITH 

“But your system and mine do not conflict as radically as 
those do.” 

“No—but they conflict. Presbyterianism is one thing. 
What you teach is another. I am sorry really sorry, Part¬ 
ridge—for the situation in which you find yourself, but I 
must decline to accept your participation here.” 

“But what if I confine my work exclusively to medicine and 
surgery?” 

“I could not accept your services. We need doctors, of 
course, but you are primarily a missionary, and on the voyage 
over here three years ago we found—not only you and I—but 
the whole group found that our views of Christ's gospel were 
in irreconcilable conflict. No—what you propose is utterly 
impracticable.” 

“Then I must push on to the next camp?” 

“It seems so. I am sorry—really sorry.” 

“God bless you then. I will move on.” 

Stanwood insisted on detaining him for a light repast, but 
when that was finished he held out his hand, and they parted. 

Partridge pushed on until he arrived at Ambrose’s mission. 
When he had told his story, the Disciple minister said: 

“You must stay over night—darkness is falling. We will 
discuss the question in the morning.” 

The wanderer was glad to find hospitality thus proffered 
to him, and accepted it gratefully. His beasts were unloaded 
and hobbled into the camp, and when they had partaken of 
supper, and talked on general matters, he retired to sleep. 

After breakfast the next morning, he made the same propo¬ 
sition to Ambrose that he had made to Stanwood. 

“But our doctrines are not the same! ” protested the Disciple. 
“Here we insist upon immersion as a cardinal fact in church 
membership. You believe otherwise. It would lead to criti¬ 
cism at home—perhaps my recall. Such a thing has occurred 
before. Our missionary board at Cincinnati is uncompromising 


147 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

on the question of baptism, and wherever our ministers in 
America have attempted congregational membership on free¬ 
dom of baptism, then schism, confusion and disorganization 
have quickly followed. I know of one case in America where 
a progressive minister of the Disciples Church received a bap¬ 
tized man into the fellowship of his congregation without im¬ 
mersing him. . Immediately sixty-seven members stood up in 
wrath, left his church forever, and started another church 
of their own. No, there can be no compromise. I would like 
to meet your wishes, Partridge—but it is simply out of the 
question. It would cause my own ruin.” 

“But suppose you take me as a physician only.” 

“It cannot be. You are too well known in America as a 
missionary. Our lines are very rigid in this missionary work. 
You know that yourself. Why, a month or so ago, a native 
family was transferred from Moberly’s station to our place— 
they were Episcopalians, you know—had been sprinkled. 
Well, we had to instruct them all over—make new converts, 
in fact, and then baptize them in the only way that the Scrip¬ 
ture recognizes—by immersion. I should be censured—recalled. 
No—it cannot be. You will pardon me. It is very painful. 
But it is impossible.” 

He went on to Gordon, and then to Moberly, only to meet 
the same rebuff. The religion which they taught was different 
from the religion of all the others, and they could not afford 
to risk confusion by trying such a dangerous experiment as 
he had proposed. They were all afraid of it as an independent 
proposition, and each one held the same dread of criticism and 
censure from the home boards. Moberly kept him the next 
night, but when morning came he bade him a brusque good-bye. 

Partridge now determined to try virgin soil, as he had done 
on his first arrival, and he turned his beasts northward and 
traveled by the compass in that direction for four days. At 
the end of that time he arrived at Basuto, a village of seven 


148 FLAMES OF FAITH 

hundred souls. He told the chief, Ranavalona, that he was a 
physician, keeping his character of missionary under cover 
for the present. Ranavalona had worked in the diamond 
mines, as had many of the men in his village, and most of 
them spoke English. They seemed to have acquired already 
a smattering of civilization, as they all wore breach clothing, 
were free from cannibalism, and seemed gentle enough in 
their manners. Besides, there was no Witch Doctor in the 
place, but polygamy prevailed without exception. They were 
all glad to accept this handsome and distinguished physician, 
and they immediately built him a hut, constructing it in a 
single day, and when this shelter was ready they transferred 
to it the packages and outfit which he had brought with him. 
He gave the chief a present of the two asses, which were 
accepted with delight, but asked permission to retain the camel 
for such use as the future might hold in store. When he had 
been in the village a week and had made the acquaintance of 
most of the inhabitants, he unwrapped the presents of cloth¬ 
ing, beads, ornaments, toys, and household utensils which he 
had intended to give to his friends at Pondomesi, and dis¬ 
tributed them freely to the Basuto people. To Ranavalona 
he gave a knife, pistol, coat and belt, which added tremen¬ 
dously to the picturesque dignity of that chieftain. 

When the rejoicings which followed these generous deeds 
had subsided, he sat down with Ranavalona and broached 
the subject of religion. He wished them to become the chil¬ 
dren of God. 

“Oh, yes,” responded the chief. “I understand you. We 
are already the children of God. We are all Mohammedans.” 

This communication produced a shock which was almost 
equal to that which had occurred at Pondomesi; but Part¬ 
ridge received the statement as if it were merely a matter of 
fact. 

“How did you find this religion?” he asked. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 149 

Ranavalona told him how the Mohammedan missionaries 
had introduced their doctrines among the Sudanese tribes. 

Partridge had read the facts in the case in his early prepara¬ 
tion for missionary work, and he knew that fifty millions of 
the black population living north of the Zambezi were nom¬ 
inally Mohammedans. There was a task that instantly fired 
his imagination. He would call these people out of their 
errors and convert them to Christianity. It was an enterprise 
worthy of the greatest statesmanship of the church, and he 
would undertake its achievement. 

His unfortunate experience at Pondomesi led him to doubt 
the stability of a gospel deposited wholly in the hearts of these 
ignorant natives, and he determined to build a church and 
dedicate it to the gospel of Christ. He asked permission of 
Ranavalona to erect a building for instructional and educa¬ 
tional purposes, and as he possessed the means of remunerating 
the laborers for their work the agreement was made and the 
building begun. Timber and stone abounded in the neighbor¬ 
hood, and at the end of four weeks a dignified, attractive and 
commodious edifice was ready to be dedicated. Partridge chose 
the following Sunday for this ceremony. Not wishing to 
deceive Ranavalona and his people as to his intentions, he 
called the inhabitants of the village together and gave them 
a discourse upon the gospel of Christ. He had won their 
confidence and regard, and they listened to his story of the 
cross with the simple faith of children. He saw that it would 
not be difficult to substitute for the formal tenets of Mo¬ 
hammedanism the warm and gentle principles of Christianity. 
He assured them that God was sponsor for his work—that God 
had sent him to them—that God had inspired him to build the 
church—and that God would give them very special recogni¬ 
tion and care in all the interests of their lives. If they would 
go with him into the new church on the morrow, he would 
make them Christians—children of God—and by that act they 


150 FLAMES OF FAITH 

would be assured of happiness in this life, and of salvation in 
the life to come. 

Ranavalona replied for his people. They welcomed Dr. 
Partridge to their village. He had come to them as a physician 
and had ministered to the sick and ailing with constant atten¬ 
tion, and had saved them many times from illness that would 
have been fatal but for his skill. Now that he had declared 
himself a missionary, and had promised them a new faith that 
would brighten their lives, they would follow his ministry with 
confidence and fidelity. 

They all retired for sleep, and Partridge spent the greater 
part of the night in preparation for the dedication on the 
morrow, and in thanksgiving to God for the great mercy that 
he had vouchsafed to his servant. Then he, too, resigned him¬ 
self to sleep. 

In the early hours of the morning, before it was yet day, a 
great storm broke over the village of Basuto. The thunder 
rolled across the heavens, exploding like the crack of doom, 
and the lightning crashed vividly across the sky, illuminating 
the firmament with unearthly fire, and terrifying the natives 
on their beds of grass. Suddenly a bolt from the black clouds 
struck the church, and soon great tongues of flame arose from 
the edifice, reaching out to devour every material thing, and 
when morning came no vestige of the house of worship re¬ 
mained upon the earth. 

In the calm that followed the storm, Ranavalona talked 
earnestly with his people, and then sought out Dr. Partridge 
in his humble dwelling. 

“It is the hand of God!” declared the chief. “God has 
shown us his wrath. The message that you have brought us 
is the message of sin. You have brought us a religion with 
three gods—and one of those gods had a baby and that baby 
was a god! We cannot understand this. Our people through 
many centuries have worshiped the one God in Heaven. This 


FLAMES OF FAITH 151 

God we must cling to. Behold the evidence and the proof! 
You must leave this place—you must go at once. Take your 
breakfast—and go!” 

And the chief strode from his presence. 

Partridge had no appetite for breakfast. The bread that he 
touched would not go down his throat. 

He found himself quoting, with a curious repetition, the 
last words that were uttered by Jesus as he was expiring upon 
the cross: “My God—my God! Why hast thou forsaken me?” 

Why, indeed, had God forsaken Jesus in such an extremity? 
He could give no answer, and so, assembling his belongings, 
he put them on the back of his camel, mounted the beast, and 
set forth into the wilderness. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


Partridge rode on for two weeks. He passed through 
jungles and forests, and rode by many villages, but he avoided 
every human being, and accosted no man. Wild beasts and 
hissing serpents gave him no alarm. He had no objective 
before him, yet if he kept on he must eventually reach some 
destination, and at the end of a fortnight he found himself 
and his camel entering a city in Central Africa. He was glad 
to be there. There was a Christian college in the city—though 
all the country around it for hundreds of miles was Mohamme¬ 
dan. The British Empire had never interfered with the 
religion of the people who by conquest or otherwise came 
within its dominion—never but once, when it stopped the 
burning of widows in India when their husbands were buried. 
So when that part of Africa became British, the population 
remained Mohammedan, and the British Empire protected 
them in the practice of their religion. While the people of 
England sent men and money to build a Christian college, the 
British Empire exercised no influence to affect the opinions 
of the natives, and the natives remained faithful to the 
Prophet. 

Partridge went at once to the college and told the moving 
story of his adventures to the faculty. They listened with 
sympathy, and assured him that he was welcome to a place 
on the staff as long as he desired to remain there, and when 
he consented to stay with them they engaged him as a lec¬ 
turer on the literature of the Bible. In the agitated condition 

152 


FLAMES OF FAITH 153 

of his mind he found this assignment a congenial one, and 
when melancholy seized him he plunged into a study of the 
Scriptures with a concentrated power of analysis which he had 
never before been able to give to the subject. Constantly he 
found new interpretations and new light in the sacred narra¬ 
tives. When he had attended the theological seminary at 
home, his professors had given him the Bible as a fixed reve¬ 
lation of God, his attributes, his law, and his purposes. In 
those days of his youthful studies for the ministry there had 
been no shadow of turning. Now he was reading these sacred 
pages in the light of his own bitter experiences. He read the 
Bible through many times, and every time he read it with a 
different understanding. After a while he found that instead 
of accepting it as a revelation from God, he was now looking 
upon it as a human record of what men thought and felt about 
God. God himself seemed to change upon every page of the 
Book. At first painted in some of the earlier pages as a 
monster whose nostrils must be pleased with the savory smoke 
of sacrificed bulls and goats, and who for his own pleasure 
ordered the massacre of men, women and children, the con¬ 
ception of these writers changed the nature of God to a spirit 
of righteousness, then, in the time of Jesus, to a spirit of love, 
again, in the time of Paul, to a spirit of controversial dogma¬ 
tism. The miracles began to lose their credibility. The crude 
ones in the Old Testament and the refined ones in the New, 
which he had once accepted without question as proof of 
divine power, seemed now to be, at times, the inventions of 
credulous minds who could be swayed to constancy by feats 
of necromancy, and, at times, the exaggerated perversion of 
perfectly natural incidents. There was one thing only in the 
Bible that survived the searching analysis of his profound 
study, and that was the call to righteousness, love, and mercy, 
first uttered by some of the greater prophets, and later exem¬ 
plified in the ministry of Jesus. Everything else his mind 


154 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


began 'to discard except for its value as human testimony, and 
even as human testimony he found that it was colored by the 
opinions of the generations which carried it on, one after 
the other. 

His students loved him and sought to bring themselves into 
frequent contact with a mind which they found so rich in 
religious experience. One of these young men, George Thorn¬ 
ton, came to him with many difficult questions, which Part¬ 
ridge at all times endeavored to answer in such a way as to 
avoid any break in the student's orthodoxy. One day Thorn¬ 
ton brought him a book called “A Harmony of the Four 
Gospels," by Burton, and told him that the volume, instead 
of harmonizing his difficulties, was leading him into inextri¬ 
cable confusion. He showed Partridge that the gospel narra¬ 
tives were given in four parallel columns on each page, and the 
irreconcilable conflicts which appeared in most of the cases 
where the four inspired writers described an identical incident, 
almost drove him to distraction. Partridge was familiar with 
the book, having used it at the seminary in the course of his 
own preparation for the ministry, and it struck him as a pecul¬ 
iar circumstance that the contradictions which were so greatly 
perplexing to Thornton had never occurred to his own mind. 
This he believed was because his faith in the period of his 
own youth was so firmly fixed that it took no heed of the 
diversity of the divine authors. Thornton brought him case 
after case in which these conflicts appeared. The first serious 
disagreement occurred on the very first page of the New Testa¬ 
ment, as shown by the Harmony, when the genealogies were 
compared as between Matthew and Luke. 

“Why should there be a contradiction there?" demanded 
Thornton. 

Partridge invented a quick answer. 

“As the written records were passed on from one scribe to 
another," he said, “it was probably inevitable that alterations 


FLAMES OF FAITH 155 

should occur as to proper names, and even as to the facts 
themselves.” 

But this only enlarged the young man’s trouble. 

“Then, if there were alterations,” said he, “what becomes 
of the dogma of the inspiration of the Scriptures?” 

When Partridge made no answer, Thornton went on with 
his censures. 

“I am still more startled to observe,” he said, as he pressed 
the Harmony upon Partridge’s attention, “that instead of trac¬ 
ing Jesus back through Mary, both writers, Matthew and 
Luke, have followed the line back through Joseph.” 

Partridge read the parallel passages with care, and even 
took up the Bible to confirm the case. This was the first 
moment when his faith in what is theologically called the 
Virgin Birth was shaken. He still made no reply, and Thorn¬ 
ton continued with his searching questions. 

“Look at this,” he said. “While Matthew tells of the flight 
of Joseph and Mary with the child Jesus into Egypt, in order 
to escape the edict of Herod, Luke’s record describes the three 
as going to Jerusalem, into the very presence of Herod. Here, 
in giving the names of the Twelve Apostles, Luke differs from 
Matthew and Mark.” 

It was time for Partridge to speak. 

“I do not believe,” he said, “that any of those discrepancies 
are of material importance in accepting the whole scheme of 
salvation.” 

“Well—look here, then,” said Thornton, “the thing that 
disquiets me most is the four accounts of the Resurrection, in 
which each writer directly conflicts with the other three. Is 
not this of material importance?” 

This was another thing which Partridge had never observed 
for himself, nor had any of the professors at the seminary 
ever referred to it in the class discussions. It made a tre¬ 
mendous impression upon his mind; but he tried now to give 


156 FLAMES OF FAITH 

the young student a general answer, and when he had dis¬ 
missed him, he carried the whole question of the variations to 
the President of the college. The President took the matter 
up with the faculty, and it was then ordered that the Harmony 
should no longer be used in the teaching courses. 

What was Partridge to do in his consecrated purpose to save 
the condemned world from perdition when the grand constitu¬ 
tion of Heaven was thus being shaken under his feet? He 
resolved, however, to hold himself to the big thing in religion, 
which he believed to be the spirit of Jesus, and to make him¬ 
self indifferent to the disturbing details which Thornton had 
brought before him. 

He could not give up prayer, but he found his prayers 
changing their method. Once he had prayed objectively. If 
he needed a pair of boots, he had asked God for the boots 
believing that he would find them at his doorstep in the morn¬ 
ing. That was the way he had prayed at Pondomesi, but he 
found that God never answered prayer in that way. God had 
not in that way answered the prayers of Jesus in Gethsemane, 
nor upon the crciss. Now he prayed subjectively, asking God 
to inspire his own spirit to achieve the ends he struggled after, 
and when he prayed for wisdom and strength, he sought wis¬ 
dom and cultivated strength, and in this way his prayers were 
answered. 

Soon he found that the experiences and contacts of his life 
were imperceptibly changing all his religious convictions. The 
belief which he had held until now, that his particular form 
of the gospel was the only one that would save the world, 
suddenly fell away from him. The wider principle that any 
form of the gospel which depended for its acceptance upon 
belief also departed from him. His burning zeal to make men 
see it exactly as he saw it, in order that their souls might be 
saved from Hell, was extinguished. His firm confidence that 
God held each human life in the hollow of his hand, and gave 


FLAMES OF FAITH 157 

an answering ear to each human petition, was gradually shaken 
under the harsh proof that undermined it. 

He received letters from America from time to time, but 
only at distant intervals. The delivery of the mails was a 
slow process, and while his mother and Carrington wrote fre¬ 
quently, the letters reached him in batches only two or three 
times a year. His mother spoke of failing health, but always 
declared her hope for the ultimate success of his work. When 
he had written of his failures, she replied that the Lord was 
testing his endurance; she urged him to press on with reso¬ 
lution, and to carry himself as the supreme Knight of Heaven. 
Carrington wrote of political conditions at home, complained 
much of the lack of great leadership, and spoke of unsound 
tendencies that were growing out of unsound emotions. At 
last came a letter telling Partridge that his mother had passed 
away, with her last breath sending him a message of love, 
and a promise to stand at the gates of Heaven and wait for 
him to come to her. This bereavement weighed heavily upon 
his spirit, and for a time he felt an almost irresistible longing 
to cut loose from the perplexities of his mission and go to 
meet his mother in that eternal abode of the redeemed in 
Christ; but he was young, strong, and in good health, and as 
the seasons passed his spirit recovered its poise. 

Partridge’s talents and personality enabled him to make 
his lectures at the college not only attractive but fascinating, 
and the students followed his discourses with lively attention. 
He strove mightily to keep his interpretations within the old 
lines, wishing not to shake the faith of his youthful auditors, 
but in the familiar discussions which followed his dissertations 
on the books of the Bible it was inevitable that the combined 
influences of his studies of the Scriptures and his personal 
experience as a trusting son of God would reflect themselves 
in his commentaries. The students were delighted with his 
liberal views and the frankness with which he expressed them. 


158 FLAMES OF FAITH 

Young Thornton had by this time made himself the leader of 
a group of skeptics who never tired of plying the missionary 
with questions which tended to upset the orthodox serenity of 
the institution, and the fact that these students esteemed Part¬ 
ridge above all the other members of the faculty at last brought 
upon him the disapproval of the governing board. They began 
to look upon his teaching at first with anxiety and then with 
distrust. In some way it was assumed that he was at least 
indirectly responsible for the spread of heresy in the class, 
and he was exhorted more than once to keep within the set 
boundaries of faith. This he tried tremendously hard to do, 
but at the end of the first year the President notified him 
kindly, as a father would tell a son, that it was deemed inex¬ 
pedient to renew his contract. So he gathered all his 
possessions, his surgical instruments, his medicines, a few 
medical books, and the simple things in his wardrobe, mounted 
his camel, and rode away. What spot in the wide world now 
needed him he did not know. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


Sir Herbert Baleantyne had pitched his camp at Ubangi, 
on a tributary of the Zambezi River, and was now preparing to 
conduct his explorations into the mineral deposits of Africa. 
Ballantyne was one of England’s great engineers, and his com¬ 
pany had received concessions which had already become 
profitable. The resources which had been placed at his dis¬ 
posal enabled him to pursue his investigations, and the travel 
incident to them, with the maximum of comfort and conven¬ 
ience. He had established a half-dozen experimental stations 
at various points, and had come to Ubangi with the intention 
of making it the terminal of a short railroad which would 
carry the product of his mines to the river, whence the boats 
that were soon to be built would take it onward to its destina¬ 
tion. 

The World War had been raging for a long time, but the 
British Government had notified Sir Herbert that his work in 
the development of Africa must go on without interruption, 
and he had reluctantly kept himself at the head of his enter¬ 
prise, hoping always that he would in time be called into the 
military service of his country. 

The white members of his organization were distributed 
between Ubangi and the other stations in his concession, at 
work upon the plans which he had laid down, and he expected 
them within a month to meet him here or at an interior point 
for further conference. Sir Herbert was therefore the only 
white man now at Ubangi, but in his train there were some 
fifty black natives, together with camels and pack-horses to 

i59 


160 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

carry his outfit. With him on all his travels went his daugh¬ 
ter, Mary Ballantyne. 

The engineer had fixed a residence for himself and his 
daughter in two little portable houses which were placed on 
timber supports extending beyond the bank and above the 
flowing river. Each house contained but one room of small 
size, while between the two structures there was a modern 
bathroom with a door opening into it from each house. An 
automatic pump supplied the reservoirs and bathtub with a 
constant flow of fresh water, while waste pipes ran into the 
river below. Back of the bathroom was a small kitchen, con¬ 
venient and portable like the other rooms. Outside the bath¬ 
room there was a sheltered platform, or porch, overlooking the 
river, where father and daughter ate their meals amidst the 
shade of friendly trees. 

There were books and magazines about the place—books 
to read for pleasure, and technical books full of engineering 
and geological information. There was an abundance of rugs 
and cushions to sleep on, though no couch in either room, and 
these, with a table and one or two chairs, comprised the furni¬ 
ture. 

Farther down on the bank, commencing at a hundred feet, 
were the tents of the black men. There were some rifles in 
the hands of these followers, for use against a sudden attack 
from man or beast out of the jungl#, but most of the company 
carried spears, knives and axes, besides the scientific instru¬ 
ments which were for the time in their custody. 

It was high noon, and the engineer and his daughter sat at 
luncheon on the porch, while a cooling breeze swept over them 
from the river. At intervals a white-garbed servant came in 
and out to serve their food. 

They were dressed to suit the climate. Sir Herbert Ballan¬ 
tyne looked like an Englishman with a thousand years of pure 
stock in him. Big in frame, tall of stature, his ruddy face 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


161 

growing a trimmed beard, and his head crowned with hair of 
light brown into which a few gray hairs were now creeping— 
he looked like an Anglo-Saxon who might have fought beside 
King Harold at Hastings. He wore a coat and breeches of 
white linen, woolen stockings, stout boots, a silk shirt, low 
collar and a flowing tie. His face was kindly, and lighted now 
and then with a glow of humor, but seemed capable of severity 
if the occasion required it. 

Mary Ballantyne was twenty-three years old. She was tall, 
yet not too tall, a lithe and excellent figure, hair of golden 
yellow, cut short at the neck, eyes of blue which were always 
ready to sparkle with fun, her head usually thrown back with 
an air of sauciness and banter, and around her and over her 
the supreme beauty of girlhood. She wore a simple white 
gown of soft silk, with white shoes and stockings. 

She smiled radiantly as she swept her eyes across the river 
and into the impenetrable jungle that lay beyond. 

“Father,” she said, “were there ever two human beings more 
completely lost to civilization? Not a soul within a million 
miles! ” 

“Come now,” he laughed, “not a human being—not a soul! 
—there are half-a-hundred of them right below us.” 

“Sh!” she whispered, raising a finger to her lips, and looking 
around to see that the servants could not hear. “They are not 
human beings—and they have no souls!” 

“Mary, Mary!” he cried. “Where is your religion?” 

“At home for Sundays,” she laughed. 

“Well, we are the only white souls—I’ll grant you that,” 
he said. 

“And it’s mighty good fun,” she exclaimed, “being off here 
discovering a new world all by ourselves.” 

“Yes,” assented her father, “it’s good fun if we can keep 
clear of these warring tribes. They’re very fierce, Mary, when 
they once get going.” 


162 FLAMES OF FAITH 

“Well,” said she, raising her cup, “here’s hoping they won’t 
get going our way!” 

And just then a servant came in and said: 

“Sir, there is a man outside—a white man—a preacher.” 

“A preacher!” echoed Sir Herbert. “What the devil is a 
preacher doing in these God-forsaken parts? 

“Why, father,” laughed Mary, “that's just where a preacher 

is needed, isn't it?” 

“I suppose so. But, good Lord! What are we to do with 
a preacher on our hands?” 

“Sing the Doxology, father. How does it go?” 

“What kind of a preacher is he, Zolo?” asked Sir Herbert, 
turning to the servant. 

“I don’t know, sir,” answered Zolo. “He rides on a camel, 
and our men stopped him to learn his business.” 

“A preacher's business could be but one thing legitimately,” 
said Sir Herbert. 

“Bring him in and give the poor creature food,” said Mary, 
and Zolo obediently walked away. 

“Did you say poor preacher?” bantered the father. 

“No_I said poor creature!” she laughed. “I leave the 

other to his congregation! But I warn you, father, we must 
be very devout when this holy man comes in. I picture him 
long-bearded, in a brown robe, cowl and sandals.” 

“And don’t, for Heaven’s sake, Mary, tell him that these 
heathen are not human and have no souls! That would 
destroy his business, you know.” 

“Watch me—how tactful I shall be!” she answered. “This 
hermit, this anchorite, this monk of the middle ages will think 
me a sister in his church.” 

“Oh, don’t be a sister to him!” And they both laughed, 
and then both rose from the table as John Partridge—young, 
tall, handsome, clean-shaven and full of strength, came into 
the room. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


163 


“You are welcome to our little home here,” said Sir Herbert, 
surprised at such a visitor, walking to meet him and extending 
his hand cordially. “I am Herbert Ballantyne, and this is 
my daughter, Mary.” 

“I am very glad to meet you,” said Mary, giving him her 
hand. 

Partridge met their greeting with an equal grace, and they 
gazed upon him with some little wonder, for as they looked r 
and as they listened to his voice, they discovered before them 
a man of uncommon dignity, power and charm. 

“I must apologize for intruding,” said Partridge, “but these 
black men required me to stop.” 

“I am delighted that they have done so,” replied Ballan¬ 
tyne, “because they have given us the opportunity of making 
your acquaintance.” 

“But I am travel-stained,” he suggested. 

“Then step in here where there is fresh water,” commanded 
the engineer. 

While he was out of the room, Mary prepared a place for 
him at the table, and commanded Zolo to bring more food. 

“Isn’t he great—and tall—and strong?” whispered Mary. 
“And such a wonderful voice!” 

“A most interesting man, I think,” admitted her father. 

Partridge was soon seated beside them at the table, partak¬ 
ing of the food with a hungry appetite, and enchanted with 
his hosts. 

Their conversation ran on long after the luncheon was 
finished, and the channels of their talk served to make them 
better acquainted with each other. While Partridge had 
heard rumors of the outbreak of the war, he now gained his 
first definite information of its course, and even now the details 
given to him on that subject were meager and unsatisfying. 
Ballantyne told of his engineering explorations, with Mary in¬ 
terjecting her own adventures, while in the next hour Partridge 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


164 

had related pretty nearly the whole of his religious experiences, 
but without a word of self-pity or complaint. 

His rapid narrative covered the winning of the natives at 
Pondomesi, his visit to America, the return to Africa to find 
his field invaded and taken over by Father O’Hara, and his 
abortive attempts to obtain a medical assignment at the four 
other missionary stations. With the story of each disappoint¬ 
ment, Mary moved her chair nearer to his, and when he told 
them of the final disaster—his expulsion from the college fac¬ 
ulty, now one year ago, she unconsciously placed her hand on 
the back of his hand, and said, “What a pity! How cruel 
it all sounds!” 

And at the end of it they all smiled with mutual under¬ 
standing and sympathy. 

“What is your next step?” inquired Sir Herbert. 

“For a year past,” he answered, “I have been ministering to 
the sick—ever since my departure from the college. I have 
a camp not far away, the location of which is now well-known 
to the natives of this country. I give them medical and surgi¬ 
cal attention whenever they need it.” 

“And you mix religion with that?” asked Sir Herbert. 

“No—that is religion in itself,” replied Partridge. “Religion, 
as I know it now, is self-control and service. I am a physician 
and a surgeon, as well as a missionary, and there is always 
work”—he smiled toward Mary—“for idle hands.” 

“Your hands could not be idle,” she said, gravely. 

“But it is three o’clock,” said Partridge, rising, “and I must 
press on.” He laughed in a gentle way. “This house is an 
oasis in the desert of my life,” he said, offering his hand to 
Mary. 

“But you are not to press on today,” protested Mary, hold¬ 
ing his hand—holding it so as to detain him. 

“No, Dr. Partridge, we shall not let you go today,” said 


FLAMES OF FAITH 165 

Sir Herbert. “We are going to keep you over night—my men 
stopped you, you know!” 

“You are, in fact, our prisoner,” said Mary. 

“But have you room? I shall be in the way,” Partridge 
interposed. 

“No,” said Mary. “You and father can sleep here—father 
on this side, where he always sleeps”—and she walked across 
the room to indicate the place—“and you on a soft bed of rugs 
and cushions on the floor here!” She crossed back to where 
they were standing. “In fact, father and I slept in this room 
for two or three nights while the men were putting up my 
room.” She grasped both his hands and held them with the 
insistence that a child would use in attaining its wishes. 

“I gladly consent to be your prisoner,” he said, when he 
perceived the urgency of their hospitality. “For one day only 
—your willing captive.” 

“And many other days in the future, I hope,” exclaimed 
Mary. 

Partridge then begged permission to go out and look after 
his camel. 

“Our men will do that,” said Mary. 

“But the packs—I must see to that myself.” So saying, he 
left them. 

Mary followed him with her eyes through the window, then 
ran to her father and threw her arms around him. 

“Don’t speak, father—don’t say a word! I want you to 
keep perfectly quiet for just a moment.” She pressed her 
head upon his breast and held her arms tightly around his 
neck. And then, “Oh, daddy!” she cried, “he is the only real 
man I have ever met—except you, the only real man in this 
world! ” 

“You are a naughty child—a bad, naughty child!” said 
Sir Herbert, holding her fast. “What sort of creature is this 


166 FLAMES OF FAITH 

that has so fascinated my girl? You must guard your heart 
against all sudden attacks.” 

“Yes, I will, daddy—but he is so wonderful!” 

When darkness began to fall, Sir Herbert proposed that 
they all go for a swim, and as soon as they had prepared for 
it they walked down the bank and plunged in, one after 
the other. Mary breasted the water with bold strokes and 
cried out to Partridge to catch her. 

“Don't go too far out!” warned her father, who ceased to 
follow them. 

She seemed not to heed him, and kept her fast pace until 
she had reached the middle of the stream. Partridge was close 
behind her, and he now called to her to start back, but she 
kept on until they attained the opposite shore, a quarter of a 
mile from home. 

“There are snakes and tigers in there!” she said, as she 
paused in her swimming and peered into the gloom of the 
jungle. 

“All right—let's go back!” cried Partridge. 

They turned and started on the homeward stretch; but 
Mary's speed began to relax and she was soon showing the 
effects of over-exertion. Partridge, who was now close beside 
her, observed that she was fatigued, and kept a watchful eye 
upon her. 

“Take it more slowly, Miss Ballantyne!” he called. 

“Call me Mary—please call me Mary!” she pleaded. 

“All right, Mary-” 

She was now becoming distressed. 

“I'm giving out! You will have to help me!” 

She began to sink, and he seized her in his arms. 

“Mary—don't be afraid now. Put your hand on my shoul¬ 
der, Mary!” 

“I'm so foolish—to give out like that!” she cried. 

“You are all right now,” he said. “That’s it, Mary. I am 



FLAMES OF FAITH 


167 


holding you! Keep your chin up out of the water. Like 
that. Strike out slowly with your legs if you can. Don’t 
be frightened—just hold on to my shoulder—that’s it, 
that’s it!” 

By calling out to her all the way back he kept her from 
falling into unconsciousness until they had nearly reached the 
shore. At that moment her senses left her, and finding himself 
now in shallow water, he caught her up in his arms and 
carried her to the dry bank. 

“What has happened?” cried Sir Herbert, who had in the 
meantime returned to the house and changed his clothes. 

“She swam clear across,” replied Partridge, “and in return¬ 
ing she overtaxed her strength. Nothing has happened. I’m 
sure she hasn’t swallowed any water. A spoonful of whiskey 
or brandy will bring her around.” 

Holding his wet and dripping burden tightly in his arms, he 
carried her to her room, laid her down and covered her with 
the blankets, while Sir Herbert brought the brandy. 

Partridge gave her a draught of the liquor and chafed her 
wrists, and after a short interval she opened her eyes, and 
laughed. She seemed always ready to laugh. 

Looking up at him, she exclaimed: “I am so ashamed of 
myself!” 

“Nothing to be ashamed of, Mary,” he answered. “She’s 
all right now, Sir Herbert.” 

“You are a naughty girl, dearest,” said her father. “I 
warned you not to go too far.” 

“Will you forgive me this time, daddy?” she pleaded. 

Her father was holding her hand, and there was no need 
for him to make answer. 

Partridge was now the physician. 

“We are going to leave you now,” he said. “Take off your 
wet clothes, rub yourself good and dry, and then to bed and 
sleep. Will you do that?” 


[168 FLAMES OF FAITH 

“I will do all but the sleep, kind doctor/' she promised, 
looking at him with her big eyes. 

“But sleep must come, too/' he said. “Now, good night.” 
“But you are to call me Mary.” 

“May I, Sir Herbert?” 

“Surely.” 

“All right. Good night, Mary.” 

“Good night—John!” 

“That's very good of you—I like that very much,” he said. 
The two men left her, and after a brief chat in the next 
room, they, too, retired to sleep. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


John Partridge slept but little that night. For the first 
time in his life he had really fallen in love. This woman—this 
grown-up child—was the most beautiful creature that he had 
ever seen. And her spirit was as beautiful as the glorious 
temple in which it dwelt. Her faith, her affection, her sym¬ 
pathy, the wondrous charm of her spirit—all gave her a per¬ 
sonality of supreme loveliness. 

He knew that she loved him. He knew it before they had 
gone into the water. Perhaps if they had not taken their 
hazardous swim their love might not have revealed itself so 
surely. It might have been concealed; but they had uncon¬ 
sciously disclosed their love to each other, without declaring 
it, when danger came to them there in midstream. 

With love flaming up in his heart all through the night, he 
suddenly realized that another tragedy had ruthlessly and piti¬ 
lessly come upon him. For the first time he thought of Mazie, 
his wedded wife, and as her image grew up in his mind a 
sense of shock came over him with almost overwhelming force. 
He was married. He possessed a wife. He was another 
woman’s husband. And he loved Mary! 

Then he began to feel a baseness of spirit. He imagined 
himself a creature full of all vileness. He had said nothing to 
his new friends of that unfortunate marriage. He had made 
no mention of Mazie. But he could not! There had not been 
time enough for that. Good Heavens, he had known them but 
for a single afternoon, and what a fool he would have been to 
blurt out the story of that fatal marriage to utter strangers! 
He would have been wearing his heart upon his sleeve. It 

169 


170 FLAMES OF FAITH 

would have degraded him in their eyes—yet, even before a de¬ 
cent time had elapsed, when, in a surer friendship, it might have 
been proper to tell them—this love had come! This love had 
come to Mary and to him. With the swiftness of lightning 
they had fallen in love. Could he be accused of trifling with 
Mary! He was not guilty, yet he felt himself accursed. 

Then his thoughts reverted to Mazie. He had married her 
from a sense of duty, and he had meant to consecrate his life 
to her, but she revolted from him and cast him off. He had 
never been indignant with her, not even when he discovered 
her relationship with Jim Larkin. He felt a great compassion 
for her in the struggle she had made to escape from both him¬ 
self and Jim, and he was generous enough to realize that she 
had fallen into a snare when she came home in the belief that 
Jim was dead. She had meant to live her life free from con¬ 
tact with either of them; but when she found Jim there she 
was not strong enough to save herself. Even after that Part¬ 
ridge had begged her to come with him—he would have taken 
her and started her life anew. 

Now, was he not patterning after Mazie? He had never 
conceived of falling in love. He had swept from his mind a 
thousand times all those fitful longings which come to normal 
men as unworthy of his married state and of his duty to God; 
and yet, trying to live his life in the wilderness among wild 
men and wild women, he had suddenly become the slave of 
a violent and consuming passion for a woman whose beauty 
and charm had enthralled him. How cruel it all was! Riding 
in solitude yesterday, friendless and alone, looking for some 
field of service in which to exercise his talents, he had been 
halted by the servants of this lovely creature and literally made 
prisoner until he had given an account of himself. In that 
hour of contact with her this tragedy had come! Just as 
Mazie had fallen into an unseen snare, so had he been tripped 
in a like manner. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


171 


Then again he thought of Mazie. Their cases were not 
alike, after all. He had urged Mazie to come and live with 
him—for years he had pleaded with her to do that; and she 
had steadfastly refused. What duty, then, did he owe to her? 
Arthur Carrington had ceaselessly urged him to obtain a 
divorce. He would live his life but once and he was entitled to 
his share of happiness, and the laws of all civilized states rec¬ 
ognized the propriety of such a step. Surely all the human 
experience on which these laws were based sustained the right 
of every man to have the companionship of a wife. Yet he had 
never had it. If he took Carrington’s advice the way of happi¬ 
ness was open to him—and such a step would save Mary 
from a cruel disappointment. In his desolation he tried to 
pray, but his prayers refused to go upwards, and he received 
no strength from them. 

The preacher’s words had declared that whom God hath 
joined together—let not man put asunder! He still believed 
that there was a God in Heaven. God had seemed to neglect 
him, and turn away always from his outstretched arms, but 
he would not neglect God. And yet—had God really joined 
him and Mazie together? 

He had once seen Bulwer’s play of “Richelieu,” and he 
remembered a great speech by the old Cardinal: 

“In silence and at night the conscience feels 
That life should soar to nobler ends than power.” 

Here he was, in the silence of the night, in the heart of Africa, 
striving to do the work of God, and yet attempting for his 
own felicity to break a command which he believed to be 
divine. He would not yield! When morning came he would 
tell Sir Herbert and Mary of his plight, and after listening to 
their reproaches he would mount his camel and go away into 
the deeper jungle if he could find any vaster depths in Africa. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


In the morning, after nearly a sleepless night, Partridge 
arose early and made his toilet in the bathroom. He yearned 
to learn how Mary was—how she had slept—and whether she 
felt any discomforts from the adventure in the river. For an 
instant he even thought of himself as her physician and won¬ 
dered whether he might not ask permission of Sir Herbert 
to go in and inquire after her. He reflected, however, that any 
further show of interest would but add to their cup of bitter¬ 
ness, and he steeled himself to a complete reserve of manner. 

As soon as he was dressed he went out for a stroll and to 
look after his camel. He found that the black men had fed 
and tended his beast, and after walking aimlessly among the 
tents for half-an-hour he returned to the house. 

Sir Herbert greeted him with hearty courtesy. 

“Good morning, Partridge,” he shouted through the door 
as he caught sight of John returning from his walk. “I didn’t 
hear you get up. In fact, I slept like a log. How did you 
sleep, Dr. Partridge?” 

“Good morning, Sir Herbert,” returned Partridge, with 
equal cordiality. “I got along pretty well. How is Miss 
Ballantyne this morning?” 

“I have been in to see her—but she shall answer for her¬ 
self. Oh, Mary!” he called. “Come to breakfast!” 

“Yes, father.” Her clear voice rang out like the tone of a 
silver bell. “Just in a minute! ” 

And in a moment she came in. And what a vision she was! 
Dressed this morning in a boy’s suit of white silk—a coat- 

172 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


173 


blouse, knicker-breeches, stockings and high-laced shoes—all 
white from tip to toe, a lovely, smart, saucy and happy girl. 

She seemed a trifle shy in her salutation of her guest and 
hesitated to blurt out his name, but she ran to greet him with 
both her hands held out. 

Partridge was melted on the instant by the warmth of her 
nature. 

“Am I to say ‘Mary/ this morning?” he asked, holding her 
hands. 

“Yes, surely—John,” she laughed. 

“How did you sleep?” 

“So tired after the swim and the rub-down that I went to 
sleep the moment my head touched the pillow, and never 
wakened until father came in and roused me.” 

“Do you feel any effect from the little adventure in the 
river?” 

“None whatever, but all the pride of life is gone out of me.” 
She was laughing as she made this confession. 

“You were like Caesar calling out to Cassius to save him 
in the Tiber,” said Sir Herbert. 

“Of course I was,” she assented, “for did not Cassius say 
that Caesar cried out like a girl?” 

“It was a girPs privilege to ask help,” said Partridge. 

“I thought myself an indomitable swimmer,” she continued, 
“but it would have gone ill if you had not been near me. 
I hope I did not tire you out?” 

“No—oh, no.” He released her hands. “But you must not 
let it affect your confidence. The only thing is not to go too 
far.” 

“Good advice,” said Sir Herbert, “in everything.” 

“Now, father,” she said, with a rebuking finger raised, 
“moralists are barred in the jungle.” 

“All right, Mary. Let’s go to breakfast. Zolo says it’s 
ready.” 


174 FLAMES OF FAITH 


They sat down and partook of the meal. The conversation 
ran to general topics—Sir Herbert’s explorations, the political 
situation in England, and a late book or two. Mary could not 
fail to note that Partridge was preoccupied, and once or twice 
she renewed her inquiry with solicitude as to whether she had 
not overtaxed him the night before. 

With breakfast ended, the table cleared, and Zolo out of 
the way, they all sat down on the porch, and Partridge asked 
permission of his hosts to tell them something which he 
desired that they should know. Their consent having been 
granted, he began his story with a heavy heart. 

“Sir Herbert and—Mary,” he said, “I told you so many 
things yesterday which related to my career that I was afraid 
I was imposing my egotism on a hospitality which has been 
one of the most beautiful episodes in my life. I would not 
tell you everything in the first afternoon of our acquaintance. 
What I am going to tell now I would have withheld entirely 
as a matter which concerns no one in Africa except myself if it 
were not now necessary to make this disclosure to friends who 
have become more than mere acquaintances. I told you yes¬ 
terday of college, then of the little church at Wandsy, and 
then of my missionary adventures. I did not tell you because 
the time did not seem appropriate to do so—I did not tell 


you that I am married.” 

He was looking at Sir Herbert, and he now paused. After 
an instant, he turned his gaze on Mary and saw that she was 
pale, but she looked out across the river and made no sign 
of any feeling. 

“No, you did not tell us,” assented Sir Herbert. 

Partridge then related as briefly as the circumstances would 
permit the story of his marriage to Mazie Schilcraft. He let 
it be known as delicately as he could frame the words that 
they had spent the night at the hotel, and that his wife had 


FLAMES OF FAITH 175 

while making every excuse for Mazie, he thought that the 
whole truth required him to intimate what the nature of her 
life had been afterwards with Jim Larkin. 

When he finished the distressing story, Sir Herbert said: 

“Of course you obtained a divorce? ” 

“No.” 

“But you will do so?” 

“Indeed, Sir Herbert, I have never thought of it. The old 
traditions of marriage cling very tightly.” 

“But she has given you the—the Biblical reason.” 

“Still I have not thought of it.” 

“You have no affection for her?” 

“None at all. It is long since dead.” 

“Your friends—don’t they advise this?” 

“Yes—my best friend urges it.” 

Mary spoke for the first time. 

“Who is your best friend?” 

“Arthur Carrington—we went to school together. He took 
to the law, while I chose the ministry.” 

“Is he married?” asked Mary. 

“Yes—very happily. He has always insisted that God has 
had no hand whatever in any marriage of that kind.” 

“And he is right,” said Sir Herbert. “He is quite right. 
God never has anything to do with the unequal yokings by 
which so many young people, attracted merely by propinquity, 
or some other unsubstantial reason, entirely upset every chance 
of a happy life. No—God is no such busybody—no such 
bungler.” 

“Your thoughts seem very reasonable, Sir Herbert,” said 
Partridge. 

“It is a most unfortunate entanglement,” continued Sir 
Herbert. “If it were my case I would not hesitate an instant. 
But,” he added, smiling in the old friendly way, “it is not my 
case. You will stay with us for a day or two?” 


176 FLAMES OF FAITH 

“No, thank you, Sir Herbert. I depart this morning. 
Immediately, in fact.” 

“But where are you going?” demanded Mary. 

“Into the jungle,” he replied, very gravely. “To pursue my 
work.” 

“Have you anything to take you there?” she persisted. 

“Oh, yes,” he answered. “My African mission.” 

Mary stood up and turned toward him as if she were going 
to say something, but if that was her purpose she changed her 
mind. 

“And now, good-bye, Sir Herbert,” continued Partridge, 
extending his hand. “I shall never forget your hospitality and 
all your kindness and the charm of your home. After a 
pause he gave his hand to Mary. Her fingers were icy cold. 
“And thank you,” he said. “I have never been so happy as 
I was last night—I have never been so wretched as I am this 
morning. Good-bye.” 

Her hand clasped his for an instant but she did not speak. 
He passed through the door, and in a few moments they saw 
him mount his camel and ride away into the jungle. 

“Mary—darling!” cried Sir Herbert. “Let me run for a 
glass of brandy.” 

«No—don't, father. I’m all right now.” 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


The Irish priest, Father O’Hara, had made such good 
progress in the conversion of the people at Pondomesi that he 
had sent to America for a new missionary to take his place 
there, so that he might go into another field for further vic¬ 
tories. In the course of a few months a young American priest, 
Father Carlyle, had arrived at the village, and under O’Hara’s 
instructions was rapidly fitting himself for the spiritual lead¬ 
ership of Bonjalungo’s tribe. 

Alan Carlyle came from an old American family which had 
won distinction in the Revolution. His ancestors had all been 
Protestants, but his father had fallen in love with a Catholic 
girl of Irish parentage, and had married her. Alan was the 
only child of this union, and the early death of his father had 
induced his mother to make him a servant of the church by 
educating him for the priesthood. Happy in this dedication of 
her son to a spiritual life, the mother passed away. 

When he had been a priest for two years, Alan Carlyle 
received the call to come into the African missionary field, 
and he immediately obeyed it. Father O’Hara found him a 
handsome youth, in whom the ancient faith seemed firmly 
rooted—a boy, full of enthusiasm for the cause to which he 
had pledged his life, happy of disposition, and frank and gen¬ 
erous to friend and foe alike. 

Bonjalungo’s people took to him with much favor. Indeed, 
they had never learned to love Father O’Hara, whom they 
found to be austere, self-centered and dictatorial. Secretly, 

177 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


178 

they had many a time regretted the departure of their first 
missionary, John Partridge. Carlyle seemed to be more like 
Partridge, and he had soon won the confidence and affection 
of the tribe. 

When the time approached for Father O’Hara to take his 
departure, the two priests held a prolonged conference over the 
religious situation as it existed in the territory around them, 
and particularly as they beheld it at Pondomesi. 

“Confine yourself to your post here as a shepherd watching 
his sheep,” O’Hara exhorted him. “If you are not on guard, 
the wolf may come and destroy all.” 

“Our station here seems safe enough,” said Carlyle. 

“Yes. These people appear to be fixed in the true faith 
which I have taught them; but we must look out!” 

“What became of Dr. Partridge?” 

“After his return from America, where he studied medicine 
and surgery, he found that there was no place for him here, 
and he departed for some of the other stations.” 

“He was greatly disappointed to find his work lost—his 
people taken away?” 

“Naturally—but truth must prevail.” 

“Yes, Father O’Hara, but it was hard on him.” 

“You would have done as I did?” 

“I fear not.” 

“Then you would neglect your religious duty.” 

“He went home to study medicine,” said Carlyle. “Then 
they must have needed medical science—or he would not have 
gone. What do you do—what do these others do—these Prot¬ 
estants—in epidemic sickness or in individual need?” 

“As to them—there is no physician within a hundred miles 
—nor is there one here. In surgical necessities we are help¬ 
less. We all have the simple remedies for sickness and know 
well enough how to use them, and I believe there has never 
been an epidemic in any of the villages since the day some 


FLAMES OF FAITH 179 

years ago when we all arrived here together, prisoners to this 
very chief! ” 

“But you have told me of a legend of a Great White Doctor 
who travels through the country to the north. Who is he? 
Does he never come into this region?” 

“I have never seen him,” replied O’Hara. “The native 
hunters from above the Zambezi have brought stories of his 
wonderful cures. They say he rides among the Mohamme¬ 
dans south of Khartum, always on a camel, garbed in a white 
suit of European fashion, but with a white robe and a white 
hat. He has medicines and instruments, possesses marvelous 
skill, and will accept no reward for his services. These reports 
are doubtless exaggerated. Possibly an itinerant quack. You 
know the credulity of these people. They will believe any¬ 
thing!” 

It was now Carlyle’s time to stare. It sounded like an un¬ 
seemly admission. 

At that moment another white man entered the village on 
foot. The two priests gazed upon him with surprise, and 
Father O’Hara at once recognized in him his old adversary, 
Dr. Stanwood, the Presbyterian missionary from Ebolowo. 

“How do you do, Mr. O’Hara,” said Stanwood, with his 
accustomed stiffness of manner, and holding out his hand by 
way of formal greeting. 

“How do you do,” said the other, secretly resenting the form 
of address. “It is a long time since we have met.” 

“Yes, a long time—isn’t it?” replied Stanwood. “Yet we 
have been neighbors. The truth is—I was afraid to leave my 
flock to make visits. Partridge, you know, left his!” 

This was a shot which went home; but O’Hara did not 
reply to it. 

“This is Father Carlyle—just here from America,” he ex¬ 
plained. 

“How do you do, Mr. Carlyle.” 


180 FLAMES OF FAITH 

“Glad to meet you, Dr. Stanwood,” said the younger man, 
in a cordial voice. 

“Are your people well?” asked Stanwood. 

“Yes—thank you—all well. And yours?” 

“That is what has brought me here. Certainly nothing else 
would do it. We have an outbreak of the plague, and no 
medicines—no doctors. Have you any remedies?” 

“No—not for the plague. How serious is it?” 

“Ten or a dozen have died. A score are sick.” 

“How did it start?” 

“From the Methodist camp—five miles beyond us. The 
Episcopalians and the Disciples also have a touch of it. It 
will sweep the country if we do not check it. I hoped that 
you would be able to do something.” 

“I can do nothing. I would not know what to do,” answered 
O’Hara in some alarm. And then he added: “I hope you are 
not bringing it here!” 

“It will come without my bringing it,” answered Stan¬ 
wood. “It is spreading like a pestilence. Have you ever 
heard talk among your natives of a strange physician—the 
Great White Doctor?” 

“Yes_we were just speaking of him—a coincidence! Do 

you believe there is such a character—other than a quack?” 

“Yes_I do believe it. The reports that have come to us 

are much too definite and circumstantial for disbelief. I 
hoped you would know where to find him.” 

“I do not know. I am sorry. But it is supper-time—and 
the clouds are rising. Stay all night, and in the morning we 
shall make particular inquiry.” 

Stanwood had intended to return to his station without de¬ 
lay, but a tropical storm was breaking over them, and he ac¬ 
cepted their hospitality, promising to leave them at break 
of day. 

When the sun rose, and Stanwood was preparing to return 


181 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

to his own station, Alan Carlyle came to him in great anxiety 
and told him that Father O’Hara was sick with the plague. 

“What are we to do?” asked the youthful priest. 

“I do not know. God help us!” cried Stanwood. “He will 
not forsake us! Who are these men—coming? You have 
more visitors.” 

“White men—I do not know them,” answered Carlyle. 

“But I do—they are my brother missionaries, from the 
other stations near mine,” said Stanwood. “What brings them 
here, I wonder?” 

At that moment the missionaries entered the village—Am¬ 
brose, Moberly and Gordon. 

They all seemed to speak at once. 

“It is the plague!” they exclaimed. 

Moberly explained their visit. 

“We have come in search of the Great White Doctor, y he 
said. 

“Do any of you know where to find him?” demanded 
Carlyle. 

“One of my men brought a rumor of him just a little to 
the north of us, and we are proposing to go in search of him, 
said Moberly. 

“I will go with you—if you will permit me,” said Carlyle, 
eagerly. 

“Surely—we may as well all go together,” answered Stan¬ 
wood. “We have got it in all our stations, and we should 
learn at once whether such a personage exists, and if so, 
whether he will help us.” 

“Let us be off, then, at once,” cried Carlyle. 

Without loss of time, the entire group set off on foot through 
the jungle to the north in search of the Great White Doctor. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


Partridge knelt beside Borambo, a great chieftain, who lay 
desperately ill in a Mohammedan village ten miles north of 
the Zambezi. He was sick with the plague, which had al¬ 
ready decimated his tribe. On the instant that the epidemic 
had appeared, the chief had dispatched messengers in search 
of the Great White Doctor, whose fame had spread through¬ 
out the Sudan, but before he had been found and brought 
hither the chief himself had been stricken with the disease. 

Arriving on his camel when the whole population was in 
distress, Partridge extracted the serum from the chief’s horses 
and set himself to arrest the plague. In every case where he 
applied his remedy within twenty-four hours of the outbreak 
of sickness, the patient recovered, but the cases of longer dura¬ 
tion, infected before his arrival, were all too frequently fatal. 
He worked among the people with unremitting energy, giving 
especial attention to their chief. 

When he had come to them he found the chief’s wives and 
his principal warriors grouped around him on the ground 
where he lay upon his rude bed. He peremptorily ordered all 
the spectators away, segregating the sick, and using those who 
had recovered as nurses and assistants. Borambo begged him 
to cure him. 

“I will do my best,” he said. 

At the end of ten days he had arrested the plague. In an¬ 
other week all were well, and Borambo was able to ride his 
horse. Partridge prepared to depart to his own station. 

“Take with you what you will!” cried the chief, in a spirit 


FLAMES OF FAITH 183 

of deep gratitude. “Women, horses, camels, tusks, furs—any- 
thing—everything I have is yours!” 

“I thank you,” replied Partridge, pressing his hand. “But 
I have need of nothing.” 

“But you will not go into the jungle alone? I will send 
a guard with you to any spot—across Africa, if you will?” 

“No—I travel alone. Neither men nor beasts will hurt 
me.” 

“But if you ever want anything—send to me.” 

“Thank you—and farewell.” 

Mounting his camel, he rode away. 

At the end of the day he arrived at his house in the forest 
and was refreshed by the two servants who attended him there. 
He had finished breakfast the next morning when his ear 
caught the sound of men running toward him. Partridge, 
dressed as he habitually was in his spotless suit of white, 
now threw his white robe around his shoulders, and stood up 
to meet the newcomers. There were five men in the group, 
and as he recognized some of their faces, Partridge raised a 
handerchief to his mouth, partly concealing his features. 

“I am Alan Carlyle,” cried the foremost of his visitors, al¬ 
most out of breath—“a Catholic priest, from America. I am 
doing missionary work here in Africa. There is an outbreak 
of the plague in our settlement—and in the villages of these 
other gentlemen. We are all missionaries and we have run all 
the way here to find you. God has been with us. We took it 
all on faith. And we have found you. You are the Great 
White Doctor. Oh, sir! I am overjoyed. I beg you to come, 
sir—to come with us at once!” 

“Hail to you, sir!” cried the second man. “If you are the 
Great White Doctor, I have come to beg your help. My 
name is Stanwood—I am a Presbyterian missionary—and my 
people are likewise sore stricken with the plague.” 

“You are the Great White Doctor!” cried the third man. 


184 FLAMES OF FAITH 

“I am Ambrose, a Disciple missionary, and we have an out¬ 
break of the plague at my station. We have neither doctors 
nor medicines. We beg you to come with us without delay.” 

“Oh, sir!” cried another, “I am Moberly, an Episcopalian 
missionary. Our distress is the same as that of the others. 
But my village is the nearer one. Come there first, I pray 
you!” 

And yet a fifth man spoke. 

“My name is Gordon, a Methodist missionary,” he ex¬ 
claimed, when scant breath would let him speak. “We have 
the plague among my people. Come with me, sir,—in God’s 
name!” 

The Great White Doctor dropped his hand, and they gazed 
into his face. 

“John Partridge!” they exclaimed one and all, except Alan 
Carlyle, and he, too, when he heard that name, repeated it in 
wonder. 

“Is it true?” demanded Stanwood. “Are you indeed the 
Great White Doctor?” 

“I think some of them call me that,” replied Partridge. 
“But you will come?” demanded Stanwood, while the others, 
except Carlyle, stood ashamed and silent 
Partridge made no answer. 

“Oh, I know what your feelings are!” cried Stanwood. 
“You begged me to keep you with us as a physician, and I 
drove you out. I know—and I am ashamed. Nevertheless, 
I beg you to come!” 

“I make the same acknowledgment, with all abasement and 
humility! ” cried Ambrose. The others spoke in the same vein. 

“And my plea will be less welcome to you, said Alan Car¬ 
lyle, “for I come to you from Father O’Hara, who is himself 
down with this appalling sickness—and many of his people at 
Pondomesi.” 

“His people!” repeated Partridge. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


185 


“Oh, I know that story, sir!” replied Carlyle, “and I am 
sorry for it. But Father O’Hara is sick—and you are well 
and generous—you have the skill—the whole country rings 
with your fame! Won’t you come, sir?” 

“Yes!” answered Partridge. “I will go with you all.” 

There was a glad shout. 

“To Pondomesi first,” he said, “and cure O’Hara. The rest 
of you come with me, and I will show you how to treat the 
plague.” 

He mounted his camel and started southward at a pace 
which compelled the missionaries to exert themselves in order 
to keep up with him on foot. 



CHAPTER XXXIX 


Partridge swung into Pondomesi at a good pace, while the 
five missionaries trotted behind his camel. When the natives 
beheld the Great White Doctor coming to their relief they fell 
on their knees in a kind of awe. As he dismounted from his 
beast and strode with rapid step toward the familiar cow¬ 
shed, he seemed, in his white raiment, to suggest a savior, and 
in their fear of death they looked upon him as such. 

He took from his saddle bags some sealed vessels contain¬ 
ing the precious serum. He then began to organize the camp 
against the pestilence. 

There were, besides O’Hara, a dozen of the natives sick 
with it already, and Partridge ordered these creatures segre¬ 
gated. He then formed nursing squads, instructing them care¬ 
fully how to take care of their patients. When this was done 
he went in among the sick and administered his specific treat¬ 
ment to them. 

The five missionaries followed him eagerly in every move¬ 
ment he made and hung upon every word he uttered, noting 
particularly the manner in which he administered his serum, 
and the frequency with which it was to be given. 

When Partridge and his companions entered the hut of 
Father O’Hara, the priest was too ill to recognize them; but 
young Carlyle cried out: 

“Here—Father O’Hara—we have brought the Great White 
Doctor to cure you.” 

The priest looked up, and then said, with astonishment: 

“Is it you?” 


186 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


187 


Partridge made no reply, but Carlyle exclaimed: 

“Yes—it is Dr. Partridge—the missionary of Pondomesi. 
He is the Great White Doctor, and he has generously come 
here to cure you and all our sick.” 

O’Hara said no more, and Partridge attempted to inject the 
serum. 

“What’s this thing around your neck?” he demanded. 

“I don’t know,” answered the priest. “I felt some one put 
it there a while ago.” 

Carlyle sprang upon a man who was peering in at the door 
and dragged him into the room. 

“What is this, you scoundrel? What have you done?” he 
cried. 

The Witch Doctor was trembling from head to foot. He 
tried to evade the question, but Carlyle shook him savagely 
until he answered. 

“It is the skin of a rattlesnake. I put it there to cure 
him!” 

Partridge tore it off and threw it aside. 

He then made the injection, after which he treated all the 
other patients in the same way. But in every case he found 
it necessary to tear off the rattlesnake skin from their throats 
—the sure evidence that the Witch Doctor, preceding him 
among them, had relapsed into the practice of his jungle super¬ 
stitions. 

When the sick had all been attended to, Partridge applied 
prophylactic treatment to those who were yet whole. Then, 
giving final directions to Carlyle as to the care of the patients 
until he should return, he was preparing to start away to the 
other villages with the impatient missionaries when Bonja- 
lungo came up to him. 

“I want you to stay here, Dr. Partridge, and take charge of 
my people,” he said. 

Partridge shook his hand. “Thank you very much,” he 


188 FLAMES OF FAITH 

said cordially, “but I could not now do that. You are in good 
hands-” 

“We want you to come back—to stay here—and take 
charge.” 

“I will come back while you are sick—as often as you need 
me. Good-bye, Bonjalungo.” 

Carlyle, who had listened to this conversation, seized Par¬ 
tridge’s hand. 

“Dr. Partridge,” he cried, “you are a brick!” 

Partridge smiled and rode away, followed by the Protestant 
missionaries. 

Carlyle walked over to Bonjalungo, and laid his hand on his 
shoulder. 

“I know how you feel, old man,” he said. “I would feel 
that way, too. I wish he would return and take charge of your 
people once more. I feel that somehow you all belong to him. 
But he has told us how to handle this thing. You and I will 
work it out together until he comes back.” 



CHAPTER XL 


Partridge spent a solid month in fighting the pestilence in 
the five villages. Four of these settlements lay within easy 
reach of each other, but Pondomesi was farther away; but 
he arranged his visits so that he could attend to the necessi¬ 
ties of each community every second day. His organization 
everywhere was as complete as the circumstances would per¬ 
mit. He had instructed each one of the missionaries in the 
essential details of his treatment, and had formed the more 
intelligent natives into groups of nurses, reserving to himself 
not only the general direction of the epidemic, but taking over 
also the entire responsibility of physician-in-chief. At the 
end of the month the victory had been won and good health 
had been restored. 

The fatalities had been large, more than two hundred and 
fifty of the natives having died; but on the other hand some 
fifteen hundred sick had recovered, among these being Father 
O’Hara. Bonjalungo had suffered a severe attack, but very 
special care on the part of Hr. Partridge had brought him 
through safely, and his gratitude to his savior knew no bounds. 
The Witch Doctor had taken the disease, and having wrapped 
nearly his whole body in rattlesnake skins and applied the 
internal parts of toads to his throat, claimed that he had cured 
himself, and Partridge, who had given him particular atten¬ 
tion, disdained to contradict him. 

While Father O’Hara lay sick, and for a part of the time 
unconscious, Alan Carlyle had worked with great diligence, 

189 


190 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


not only as a valued aide to Partridge in fighting the malady, 
but also in the control of the Catholic ceremonies of the com¬ 
munity. He and Partridge had developed an enduring friend¬ 
ship, and in the evenings when the labor of the day was ended 
and they found themselves together with an hour of leisure on 
their hands, they conversed on the topics which affected their 
lives in the work of the jungle. Partridge had revealed to his 
new friend the complete story of his experience in Africa— 
how he had come hither with an absolute belief in the efficacy 
and the necessity of his own religious opinions as the source 
of salvation for these barbarous tribes; and how he had 
placed his own life in the hollow of God's hand, and had 
trusted God to rule over every thought and instinct of his 
soul. Then came the process of proof upon proof whereby 
his disillusion had been wrought, and he had found from bitter 
and humiliating experience, time after time, that God the 
Heavenly Father, holding each life in his special care and pro¬ 
tection, and guiding the thought and conduct of every human 
creature, was no part of the present scheme of the divine 
order. Then it had come to him that service to God through 
ministry to God's children was the duty of men who were 
capable of thinking out the scheme of life. When the Chris¬ 
tian missionaries had driven him from their camps, there had 
remained for him no work except among the Mohammedan 
tribes at the north, and to these he had given the whole of his 
talents and his strength, but had made no effort to amend 
their religious beliefs. And now those missionaries had called 
him back, and he was once more at home with the children 
of God. 

Carlyle listened to this narrative of a soul's travail with 
deep interest, and discovered before long that the light which 
flowed out from Partridge's life was beginning to illuminate 
his own soul. He spoke of his own career with an equal can¬ 
dor; reviewed with a boy’s pride the honorable part his an- 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


191 


cestors had played in the history of his country; and told of 
his entering the priesthood to please his mother. Doubts were 
clearly arising in his own mind. 

“It all means the continuation of miracles,” said Carlyle. 
“Either the priesthood—Catholic and Protestant alike, though 
in varying degrees—works miracles through relics, candles and 
prayers, through every moment of life, or our credulity draws 
us down to the level of this Witch Doctor in believing in the 
constancy of miraculous power. I am going along the pathway 
which my profession opens before me, but you can see the 
difficulties which beset the way.” 

“I love you for your candor,” said Partridge. “We are 
both learning a lot of things. It is hard to present the Prot¬ 
estant appeal where Catholic instruction has been given. 
Your Roman Catholic forms are much more impressive. You 
bring these people beads, relics, crosses, crucifixes, images of 
Jesus, of the Virgin, and of the saints; you have censers and 
incense, and a solemn and stately service. All these forms 
and accessories fit into the customs of the native populations, 
and make it almost hopeless to impress upon their minds the 
vital piety which is the spirit—or which ought to be the spirit 
—of Protestantism.” 

“Why do you say it ought to be?” 

“Because it is not,” replied Partridge, bluntly. “Prot¬ 
estantism has gone as far astray from its true mission as 
Catholicism has gone from the simple message of Jesus. They 
both need to be broken asunder—wrecked—smashed! And 
then reborn!” 

When their confidential revelations had reached this stage, 
Partridge asked his friend: 

“How long is it since the airplanes have called here?” 

“Not since I came one year ago,” replied Carlyle, “and 
Father OTiara tells me they had not been here for a year 
before that. Let us hope the war is over.” 


192 FLAMES OF FAITH 

“That’s a long time—let us hope so. I wish we might 
know!” 

“Yes—I wish we might know,” assented Carlyle. 

The next day the news came. It was now spring, and the 
great war had been raging for nearly three years. They had 
all the newspapers before them now—telling how the Germans 
had invaded Belgium and France, how they had pushed back 
and almost destroyed “the contemptible little army” of Great 
Britain; how they had scorched the fair face of France from 
the channel to the Swiss border; how a great wall builded of 
human flesh had been set up to hold them in check; and how 
they had ravaged earth, sea and sky, in their lust for do¬ 
minion; and America was now in it. The letters told them 
that men were going—and women were going—to help the 
people in the ravished bosom of France. 

There, in the thick jungle, the hearts of the two friends 
burned within them as they read the tale of horror, whereby 
a world had been upset and its civilization ruined, and when 
they came to a realization of the immensity of this sum of 
suffering and agony, they resolved on the instant that they 
would leave Africa and its heathen people, and fly to the 
succor of their own kind on the field of battle. 

When Carlyle ran to Father O’Hara to tell him of his pur¬ 
pose, he was opposed with anger, denunciation and threats. 
However, he was persistent, he disregarded every argument 
of the older priest, he cared not what censure or punishment 
might be meted out to him at home—he was going—now— 
this day—and the Great White Doctor was going, too, as soon 
as he could finish up his work. 


CHAPTER XLI 


Partridge returned immediately from Pondomesi to his 
little home in the jungle, intending to discontinue his camp 
and his laboratory, say good-bye to his servants, and depart 
for France. Just as he had completed his preparations to 
leave, a black messenger came running to him from Ubangi 
and threw himself at his feet. 

He lifted him up and recognized Zolo, Sir Herbert Ballan- 
tyne’s servant. Zolo gave him a letter which he tore open and 
read, as follows: 

“Dear Dr. Partridge: 

“We are going to be attacked by a barbarian chieftain 
named Borambo. He wants to drive the white people out of 
Africa. We have been informed that you cured him of the 
plague, and that he is very grateful to you. Zolo learned these 
facts and the location of your own station from one of 
Borambo’s men. We are in great peril. Won’t you come at 
once? 

Mary.” 

A postscript said: 

“As soon as we heard the fame of the Great White Doctor 
I knew that it was you. You never told us! I am so proud 
of you!” 

Partridge forgot his own arrangements, and mounting his 
camel moved northward as speedily as possible, Zolo promis¬ 
ing to follow him on foot. Ubangi was not far away, and in an 
hour he came in sight of the Ballantyne settlement. 

Sir Herbert had thrown up an entrenchment around the 
land side of his house, extensive enough to shelter his fifty 

193 


194 FLAMES OF FAITH 

followers behind it, and had raised the British flag over his 
camp. As Partridge came in sight the engineer called to his 
men to make way for his admittance into the breastworks, 
and the Great White Doctor was soon receiving the greetings 
of his friends. 

“I knew you would come!” cried Mary. 

“I did not know Mary had sent for you until a few minutes 

ago,” said Sir Herbert. 

“I am glad to be here,” said Partridge. 

“The Germans and Turks have stirred up these natives 
against us,” explained Sir Herbert, “and the Mohammedan 
blacks have started a movement to turn the Christian white 
people out of Africa. We have learned of the purpose of this 
fellow Borambo, to attack us today. I don’t know what 
force he will have. My fellows are in the trench, as you see, 
with every weapon that we could find. How they will fight, if 
at all, I don’t know, but our railroad is not open, there is no 
chance for us to get away by land or water, and we must 
make the best of it, or take the worst of it.” 

“There won’t be any worst of it if Dr. Partridge can stop 
this Borambo man,” said Mary, confidently. 

“I’ll do all I can with him,” replied Partridge, “but in the 
meantime I want to join your fighting force.” 

He threw off the robe which had characterized his profes- 
sion as a physician, and stood up in his blouse, placing a pistol 
and a knife in his belt—a great alteration from the Partridge 
who had been so reluctant to fight at the beginning of his 

mission. , ,,, , 

At that moment they saw a cloud of black men coming out 
of the jungle and drawing up in hostile formation at the edge 
of the clearing beyond the ramparts. 

Sir Herbert, in order to be out of the line of fire, led the 
way from the house, and Mary and Partridge followed him 
down among his men. Partridge had carried his robe on his 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


195 


arm, and he now put it on again, for the purpose of identifica¬ 
tion, and mounted the breastworks holding in his hand a white 
flag. He then called out in a loud voice: 

“Is Borambo there?” 

A chief advanced a few steps in front of the hostile line and 
shouted, “No.” 

“Are you his people?” was the next question. 

The response came in very good English: 

“Yes, and we demand your surrender.” 

“Chief,” cried Partridge, in a friendly tone, “do you re¬ 
member the Great White Doctor who cured Borambo and his 
people of the plague? I am the Great White Doctor and these 
people are my friends.” 

The barbarian listened to this speech and turned to speak 
to two or three of his followers. He then approached still 
nearer the line where he could be heard with distinctness. 

“Our great chief, Borambo, is not here,” he said. “We all 
know the Great White Doctor. Borambo is hunting for him 
even now. He will be safe among us to go or come at will; 
but we are commanded to make prisoners of the English party, 
and the white woman there is to be the wife of Borambo.” 

Partridge turned his eyes back for a moment and saw Sir 
Herbert draw his revolver, and speak a word of assurance to 
his daughter. 

“Get your men ready for a fight,” said Partridge, in a low 
voice. Then turning to the front, he called out: 

“Chief, we will not surrender. We don't want to fight, but 
we are prepared for a battle if you force it. I am the friend 
of Borambo, and he is my friend. But the English woman 
and her father are also my friends. We cannot listen to your 
proposals, but we are willing to give you some nice presents 
if you will go back to your own camp and not molest us.” 

“We are commanded to do what I have said,” called the 
black savage. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


196 

“Then we shall have to fight you,” was the reply, and 
Partridge jumped down from the rampart, and rejoined his 
friends. 

Sir Herbert gave an order to his own followers. 

“Wait until they begin the attack,” he said, “then fire 
every shot you have, and use every weapon—spear, knife, 
ax—to defend yourselves.” 

The men had put their axes on long poles, making battle 
axes of them, and Sir Herbert and Partridge armed themselves 
with these weapons. 

There was a yell from the line, growing in volume and sus¬ 
taining itself through the ensuing action. The invaders came 
forward with a rush. 

“Fire!” cried Sir Herbert. 

The shots rang out from the rampart and four or five of 
their foes fell in their tracks; but Borambo’s men came in such 
numbers that they were quickly in a hand-to-hand fight, first 
on top of the breastworks, and then down in the trenches. 
Sir Herbert pushed forward into the midst of his foes, striking 
them down with his battle ax with a fury which would have 
distinguished one of Coeur de Lion’s crusaders, but a stray 
shot pierced his heart and he fell, mortally wounded. 

Mary ran to his side and caught him in her arms. 

“If the worst comes, kill yourself, Mary,” he cried. 

She held him in her arms as his spirit passed away. 

Partridge had fired his revolver until it was useless and had 
felled a half-dozen of his foes. He threw the weapon from 
him and was now laying about him right and left with a 
battle ax; but Sir Herbert’s men, after many of them had 
been slain, had ceased to fight, and they now made it plain 
that they wished to surrender. Partridge stood alone in front 
of his dead friend and of the young girl who lay white and 
tearless upon her father’s breast. The battle had come to a 
sudden end. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


197 

Partridge lifted the distressed girl and supported her in his 
arms while she gave way to her anguish. In a moment she 
looked down upon her father and as his words came back to 
her mind her weeping ceased and she prepared herself for 
obedience to his command. 

The black chief approached Partridge. 

“You are safe if you make no further resistance,” he said, 
“but this woman must go with us to Borambo.” 

“You cannot have her,” replied Partridge, defiantly. 

“Then we shall kill you and take her,” was the next threat. 
“We shall cut off your head,” he added, enraged at Partridge’s 
resistance. 

“But hear me!” cried Partridge, drawing his knife. “You 
can cut off my head if you like, but you will not get this 
woman. The instant you come upon me I shall plunge this 
knife into her heart.” 

“You will kill her?” 

“Yes,” and he raised the knife, while Mary stood up in 
pale but deadly courage. 

The savage hesitated, because his orders required him to 
carry the girl back to his camp, and it was plain that Partridge 
meant upon the instant to carry out his threat. At that tense 
moment, Borambo himself rode up on a white charger. 

“What has happened?” he demanded. 

His lieutenant explained the situation to him, and Bo¬ 
rambo, dismounting, spoke to Partridge. 

“I did not know you were here,” he said. “I did not know 
these were your friends. I have hunted you everywhere, but 
was just told that you were at Pondomesi stopping the plague. 
If I had known of your friendship for these white people this 
would not have occurred. I am sorry. You are safe now, 
you and this woman, and you are free.” 

“But your men have slain my friend—her father,” said 
Partridge. 


198 FLAMES OF FAITH 

“I am sorry. That is all I can say. I am sorry. I with¬ 
draw my claim on this woman. You are free.” 

Borambo ordered his men to release all the prisoners, to 
carry away the dead, and then to retire. While this was 
being done, he spoke again to Partridge, who was still sup¬ 
porting Mary Ballantyne, and holding the knife ready for its 
fatal task in case the chief proved treacherous. 

“My eldest son is ill,” said Borambo. “I do not know 
what it is, but if you will cure him I will give you the half 
of Africa.” 

“Bring him here and I will do what I can,” replied the Great 
White Doctor. 

“I shall have him here before sundown,” answered Bo¬ 
rambo, and telling his men again that they were to assist 
and not molest his friend, he rode off. In the next hour the 
signs of the battle had been cleared away, and the hostile 
blacks had followed their leader into the jungle, leaving Par¬ 
tridge and Mary alone, with some thirty of their servants. 
The tallest and fiercest of these was a savage named Polenki, 
and Partridge had observed that in the battle it was he who had 
perfidiously ordered his companions to cease their resistance. 
The scoundrel now stood regarding Mary with a wicked leer, 
and Partridge sternly ordered him to retire to his own part of 
the camp, which he did presently, but with a reluctant and 
impudent slowness which boded trouble in the future. 

In the meantime, Partridge and Mary had a sad duty be¬ 
fore them. The climate of Africa does not admit of delay in 
the burial of the dead, and the servants were set to work 
digging a grave for the distinguished engineer who had fallen 
in the attack. A rude coffin was prepared, the daughter 
pressed her lips upon the beloved face, and while Partridge, 
supporting her with his arm, quoted the Scripture and the 
prayers for the dead, Sir Herbert Ballantyne was laid to his 
eternal rest. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


199 


Partridge led Mary Ballantyne back to her room and insisted 
upon her reclining upon the rugs and cushions which consti¬ 
tuted her bed. At first she gave herself up to violent weep¬ 
ing. There was very little that he could say to comfort her, 
but he made her some tea, and begged her to try to save her 
strength and health. 

Zolo came in to say that Borambo had brought his son. 

“Don’t leave me,” cried Mary. “I am afraid of them all.” 

“I will not stay long,” he promised, “and no peril shall come 
near you.” 

Borambo had brought his son, a boy of nineteen, who was 
very ill and suffering great pain. He was placed in a tent 
outside the rampart, and in the presence of his father Partridge 
made a careful examination of his case. When he had fin¬ 
ished, he informed the chief that the young man was suf¬ 
fering from appendicitis, and that he would die unless an im¬ 
mediate operation was performed, and that even then he 
might not recover. He described the nature of the disease to 
Borambo, and offered to perform the operation if he desired 
it. The chief begged him—implored him—to lose no time, 
and as Partridge had brought all his surgical instruments 
with him, he proceeded at once to do the work. An anes¬ 
thetic was used, and in a short time he had removed the ap¬ 
pendix and shown it to the anxious father waiting outside 
the tent, to whom he explained its inflamed condition. He 
instructed Borambo and those who were with him as to the 
care of the patient, told him to keep the boy where he now 
was until he recovered, and promised to see him twice a day 
until he got well. 

Partridge then returned to the house and gave instructions 
to Zolo to prepare supper. When this was ready he insisted 
upon Mary’s coming out on the porch to eat with him, so that 
she would be lifted to some extent out of her sorrow. 


CHAPTER XLII 


As the two friends sat at supper on the porch, they listened 
to the river flowing in fretful murmurs below them, but they 
made no effort to carry on a sustained conversation. Mary 
had much to say of her father—how, since her mother’s death, 
he had been both father and mother to her; what a great man 
he was; how much he had done to develop the material wealth 
of England; and how he had planned to devote the rest of his 
life to those public works in Africa which would tend so much 
to civilize the barbarous native population. 

Partridge told her that he was struck with the contrast 
between her father’s mission and his own. Sir Herbert had 
aimed to spread civilization by his great works of engineer¬ 
ing, while he himself had endeavored to accomplish the same 
ends by introducing Christianity among them. He could not 
help wondering which would be the more powerful agency, 
and she rejoined that both methods were probably necessary. 

“Especially,” she said, “if Christianity is given to them in 
the terms in which you explained your religion when you 
were here before.” 

“What was that?” he asked. 

“Why, you said that religion was self-control and service.” 

“Did I? Well, I cannot improve upon that definition.” 

Her tears fell with every mention of Sir Herbert’s name, 
and she was so exhausted by the tragedy which had bereft 
her of the companionship of her father that Partridge begged 
her to retire for rest. 


200 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


201 


“Thank you for all that you have done,” she said, rising 
and giving him her hand. “This happening would have been 
a thousandfold worse if you had not been here.” 

“Good night, Mary.” 

Her face was troubled and anxious, but she said: 

“Good night—John.” 

When she had gone, Partridge sat for a long time in deep 
reflection over the situation which had been developed under 
such tragic circumstances. Here was a young girl who had 
been suddenly orphaned and was now alone in the heart of 
Africa, beautiful to the point of danger, and surrounded by 
her own and her country’s foes. He himself was the only 
friend in the world whom she could command in this great 
need, yet he was free to protect her only so long as he might 
hold the gratitude of the barbarian chieftain who was now 
watching in such close proximity at the bedside of his stricken 
son. If there was to be treachery, Partridge knew that he 
would be its first victim, and that she would suffer an in¬ 
finitely worse fate. 

He arose and walked down from the house and beyond 
the trench to the tent where Borambo’s son lay. He found 
the boy sleeping, while the chief sat and watched him. Par¬ 
tridge examined his patient, ministered to him according to 
his needs, and spoke some reassuring words to Borambo. 

“The third day will be his worst,” he said, “but I think 
he will get along nicely and get well.” 

The chief gave an anxious ear to these words. 

“Tomorrow,” said Borambo, “my people are coming with 
food and fruits for the Great White Doctor, and every day 
they will bring all that you and the white woman will use, 
and after that much more than food and fruits—if you will 
only cure my son!” 

“I shall cure him, Borambo, in God’s mercy. I mean to 
cure him.” And after giving some parting directions for the 


202 FLAMES OF FAITH 

sick boy’s welfare, Partridge retraced his steps toward the 

h °As he drew near he thought he saw the dim figure of a man 
prowling near Mary Ballantyne’s window. He ran toward the 
spot, but the interloper, if there was one, had disappeared^ 
There were no doors between his room and Mary s, but only 
curtains and the narrow hall which led from one tc-the-other. 
Upon entering his room he stepped noiselessly through the 
curtained opening and along the hall until he reached Mary 
room He listened for a moment, and after satisfying himse 
by her regular breathing that his charge was asleep, he re¬ 
turned to his own room, prepared himself for sleep, and after 
blowing out the candle, lay down upon his rugs 

He took care to keep the pistol and the knife close at hand, 
and the very fact that he thus felt the need of weapons was 
sufficient to prevent him for some little time from going to 
sleep; but he was fatigued from the occurrences of the day, 
and after a while he fell into a sound slumber. 

How long he had slept he knew not-it might have been 
an hour, it might have been more, or less—but he was sud¬ 
denly wakened by hearing a woman’s shriek and then h.s 
own name shouted out in an agony of f ear - 

“John! John! Dr. Partridge! Help, help! 

He sprang up and ran through the hall toward Marys 
room in such haste that he never thought of taking knife or 
pistol with him. In the dim light of the moon he saw Mary 
crouched upon her bed in a frenzy of fear, while between her 
and himself was a naked and gigantic black man who was at¬ 
tempting to retreat through a closed door leading to the out- 

S ' d partridge sprang upon the miscreant and delivered a blow 
which he had learned at the boxing school, which sent him 
sprawling on the floor. As the savage arose Partridge seized 
him by the throat and bore him toward the window. The 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


203 


barbarian was enormously strong but not strong enough to 
strive with the master in whose grip he now found himself. 
At first endeavoring to overcome his white antagonist, he was 
soon content to bend all his energies toward getting away. 
But even in this he could not succeed, and as they reached 
the window in their struggle, Partridge, who now recognized 
Polenki, raised the black giant in his arms and flung him far 
out into the darkness, and heard the splash as his body struck 
the river below. 

Mary was sobbing convulsively, and it was some moments 
before she could speak. 

“There is no more danger,” said John, soothing her. 

After a time she was able to tell him. 

“I was sleeping restlessly,” she said. “There seemed to be 
a premonition of evil before me. Suddenly I woke up and 
became conscious of a figure creeping toward me—crawling 
along the floor like a snake. I was dumb with terror. But 
when his hand reached for my arm, I called to you, and he ran 
for the door, but you came before he could get away.” 

She seized Partridge’s hand and kissed it. 

“You have saved me so many times today!” she said, rest¬ 
ing her cheek against his hand. 

“You are safe now,” he assured her. “Nothing shall hurt 
you. I shall hear your slightest word from my room.” 

She raised herself on her feet and stood beside him in her 
nightgown, holding tightly to his hand. 

“No,” she said, shivering in her fear so that it was diffi¬ 
cult for her to talk. “You must not leave me. We are sur¬ 
rounded by these horrible barbarians. You and I are the only 
two white people in this wilderness. You are my only friend 
in this world. You shall not leave me here.” 

“Very well, Mary,” he replied. “I shall never leave you 
until I take you to a place of safety.” 

He was leading her through the hall and endeavoring to 


204 FLAMES OF FAITH 

soothe her terror which was still shaking her. When they 
came into his room he laid her down upon his bed and spread 
a silk coverlet upon her. He then arranged another lot of rugs 
and cushions a little way apart from her and lay down upon 
it. It was pitch dark. 

“Are you near me?” she asked. 

“I am right here,” he said. “I can reach your hand with 
mine. I shall never leave you while danger lurks.” 

“Where is your hand?” she inquired. 

“Here,” he answered. And their hands clasped each other. 

“Now I can go to sleep without fear,” she said. 

In a few minutes she was sleeping as peacefully as a child, 
and Partridge released her hand lest he might disturb her rest. 

The Christian missionary—the Great White Doctor—did 
not go to sleep as easily as she had done. He lay there be¬ 
side her in the darkness thinking a thousand things. This 
deadly peril in which they were both engulfed—what a strange 
shape it was giving to their lives! And how this delicate 
and dainty girl, fearful of every other living creature, had 
trusted him in this supreme ordeal! She was so close to him 
in this eternal solitude that their hands had clasped across the 
little space that divided them upon the floor. He was still 
conscious of her nearness by the gentle breathing which he 
could feel rather than hear. Just then the moon, gliding slowly 
down the sky, cast its rays through the window until they 
rested upon her, and he beheld her in the loveliness of her 
sleep, her golden hair and the red flush of youth in her face 
so softly illumined by the lamp of Heaven! Out of the dark¬ 
ness of his own pillow he gazed enchanted upon the picture. 

It had been his task to tell the world of Heaven and Hell, 
and in the conflicting emotions which began to rage in his 
heart, he knew that Heaven and Hell were here. She trusted 
him! Yes, but he loved her and she loved him! Was not 
love everything, and could not love like his compensate for 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


205 

every trust? And then her words came back to him—how 
she had quoted his definition of religion—“Religion is self- 
control and service!” Well, he asked himself, was he going to 
break his religion in half—was he going to abandon self- 
control? 

His thoughts reverted to Mazie. He was a married man. 
But Mazie had cast him away—and what was Mazie’s life 
now with Jim Larkin! Sir Herbert Ballantyne—the father 
of this girl who was now sleeping so near to him—had de¬ 
clared his opinion that he should dissolve his marriage with 
Mazie, and the Bible—even the Bible—absolved him from 
clinging to her after what she had done. Rejected by Mazie, 
rejected by his native converts, rejected by his fellow mission¬ 
aries, rejected by the college in which he had sought a teacher’s 
position—why was not his whole conception of Christian life 
wrong? 

What place, anyhow, had Christian life in the African 
jungle? Did moral precepts go into heathen solitudes? Was 
there either human or divine law in the fastnesses of this Dark 
Continent? Society had established no conventions here. No 
man was answerable here for anything that he did. Would 
not his great love for Mary justify him in disregarding the 
tie that bound him to Mazie? The courts would fix that 
matter speedily, and all the world, and the words of Mary’s 
father, and the declarations of the Bible would ratify it. Here, 
in the solemn loneliness of Africa, and in the pitch blackness of 
this night, his love should find its mate! 

The moonbeams faded gently from the entrancing picture, 
and darkness again enveloped the room. At that moment 
Mazie’s image fashioned itself in the depths of his conscience, 
and John Partridge avowed that the wondrous woman 
sleeping there at his side did not belong to him. He was a 
minister of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the considerations 
through which society justified human necessities in other 


206 FLAMES OF FAITH 

men did not apply to him. Self-denial was the rock upon 
which his life must be builded. This temptation must pass! 
He said to himself that just as soon as he could deliver her 
from the perils of Africa he would take himself out of her 
life, and go onward with his work, uncomforted and alone. 

Exhausted by the emotions which had swept over him, he 
fell into a deep sleep, and did not stir until the sounds of life 
through the camp in the morning wakened them both. 

Mary sat up, and at first there was a look of fear in her 
eyes, as if in dread of some hidden foe. Beholding Partridge 
beside her, she laughed all thoughts of danger away, then 
stood up utterly unconscious of her nightgown, and leaning 
over Partridge, who was now sitting up among his cushions, 
she kissed him on the forehead. Without speaking, she then 
walked through the hall into her own room to dress. Soon 
they were both ready to go through with the perils of another 
day. 


CHAPTER XLIII 


When Zolo announced breakfast, Partridge stepped on the 
porch and met Mary there. She was dressed in her boy’s 
suit of white, and she gave him her hand in friendly greeting 
as if they had not seen each other that morning. 

“I am glad you were able to sleep after the disturbing in¬ 
cident of last night,” he said. 

“It was a frightful experience,” she answered. “I am so 
grateful.” 

As soon as their breakfast was finished, Mary asked John 
to take her to Sir Herbert’s grave, and when they reached 
it she placed flowers upon it, and knelt beside it for a moment 
in prayer. Partridge then returned with her to the house, and 
when he saw her occupied with the little domestic cares of 
their home, he went out over the breastworks and made a 
professional call upon his patient. 

Borambo was seated beside his son’s couch, and was watch¬ 
ing eagerly for the Great White Doctor’s arrival. He greeted 
Partridge with effusive friendship, and stepped aside in order 
that the physician might have access to the sufferer. 

Partridge found the boy in a high fever, due to the inflam¬ 
mation which had taken place before the operation had been 
performed. The symptons gave him some anxiety, which was 
reflected in his face, so that Borambo anxiously demanded to 
know whether he had discovered anything unfavorable in the 
condition of his patient. 

“Yes, he is not doing as well as I hoped,” he said. “He has 
fever and a bounding pulse, and he will require our best at¬ 
tention and care.” 


20 7 


208 FLAMES OF FAITH 

“But will he get well?” persisted the chief. 

“I believe he will, but there are things that must be done 
quickly,” replied the physician. 

Partridge at once gave the patient a new medicine, and sat 
beside him for more than an hour to watch the effect of his 
ministrations. At the end of that time there was a slight im¬ 
provement, and Partridge prepared to return to the house, 
promising to come back shortly. As he arose to take his leave, 
his eye caught sight of Polenki among the men in Borambo’s 
camp. 

“There is a man over there,” he said to Borambo, point¬ 
ing to Polenki, “who stole into our house last night and 
frightened the young lady who, since her father’s death, is in 
my care and protection. I wish you would warn him in such 
a way as will keep him in good conduct in the future. 

Borambo sprang up and looked at the black villain. 

“I will take care of him,” he said. Partridge left the tent. 

Borambo called to one of his subordinates, and gave him an 
order. The lieutenant, half-a-dozen men with him, seized 
Polenki and took him, shrieking for mercy, far off into the 
jungle, where they bound him to a tree, and left him so that 
the wild beasts came and devoured him. 

When Partridge came to see his patient in the afternoon, 

Borambo said: 

“Polenki will never trouble you again!” 

When he met Mary at dinner that night, Partridge intro¬ 
duced a topic that was pressing heavily upon his mind. 

“Mary,” he said, “as soon as this negro boy recovers from 
his sickness, you and I must face the question of the future.” 

“I have not given it a thought,” she answered. “I wish 
there were no such thing as a future! 

“And I, too!” he said. “But there is a future—for you— 
and another future for me.” 

“Why another future for you?” 


FLAMES OF FAITH 209 

“I must S° to France. America is now in the war—late, 
indeed, in coming in, but she is in with all her soul, and every 
son of hers must aid in this conflict.” 

“But I must go, too ,’ 7 said the girl. “My father wished to 
go, but his people told him that he was helping to win the 
war by what he was doing here. Now that he has left us— 
I must go, and join the rest of the women of England who 
are serving on the battlefield.” 

“If that is your purpose,” he answered, “I will ask Bo- 
rambo’s permission for both of us to be conveyed to the sea- 
coast, where we may embark for France.” 

For a long time they discussed the situation in all its bear- 
ings, wondering how they would be enabled to make the long 
journey through the jungle, and in what service they would 
find their energies enlisted at the front. When the hour grew 
late, Partridge bade his charge good night, told her he would 
go once more to see his patient before retiring, encouraged 
her to go to sleep without fear, and promised that he would 
soon be back. 

As soon as he had prescribed for the boy, he told Borambo 
of his desire to depart for France, taking the young lady with 
him, just as soon as his patient was recovered. 

The chief was moved with a feeling of intense gratitude 
by the devoted service which Partridge was giving to his son, 
and assured him that the whole resources of Africa should 
be placed at his disposal in order to expedite his journey. 
Partridge explained that the camels and horses now at the 
camp belonged to Sir Herbert Ballantyne’s expedition and 
would be needed at other stations where Sir Herbert’s work 
was going on; but Borambo was delighted to promise him a 
caravan and a sufficient escort at any moment that he desired 
to depart, provided only that he would tarry until the boy 
recovered. The physician informed him that his son would be 
well in a fortnight, and it was agreed that the journey should 


210 FLAMES OF FAITH 

then begin. Greatly relieved by this assurance, Partridge 

returned to the house. , , j 

Tiptoeing into Mary’s room, he raised the lantern he ha 
carried, and peered toward her couch to assure himself that 
all was well with her; but she was not there. 

He passed rapidly into his own room, and there he saw 
her on the couch where she had slept the night before. 

She looked at him as he raised the lantern toward her. 

“You are back! Oh, I am so glad!” she cried. „ 

“I am sure there is no danger tonight, Mary, he said. 
“They have sent the man away who troubled us last night 
where, I do not know—but Borambo assured me he is gone for 
good. You have nothing to fear.” 

“There is always fear here, John,” she said, grave y. 
are surrounded by savages. I am frightened to deatE every 
moment when you are out of sight. Even Zolo I would not 
trust. You will let me sleep here, won’t you? 

“Surely Mary,” he said. 

He went into her room and prepared himself for sleep, 
and returning, extinguished the light and lay down on the 
rugs and cushions near her as he had done the night before 
“Where is your hand?” she demanded, and he gave it to 

^She asked him about his patient, and inquired as to Bo- 
rambo’s willingness to have them go away. John told her all 
that had occurred, and again they talked of France and the 

^“Good night,” she said. When her hand relaxed its grasp he 

knew that she had gone to sleep. 

And so it was, night after night, that Maiy slept there so 
close to him that their hands always touched. When the 
moon threw its light into the room he loved to look upon her 
face, and when darkness fell, he, too, sank to sleep. 


CHAPTER XLIV 


At the end of the fortnight the sick boy had so far recovered 
from his operation that the physician pronounced him con¬ 
valescent and ready to return home with his father. Rorambo 
declared himself delighted, and truly grateful. 

“I am fully aware,” said the great chief, as he embraced 
Partridge, “of the extraordinary service you have performed. 
I know that my men have caused the death of your friend, 
Sir Herbert Ballantyne, and thereby put a deep sorrow upon 
his daughter, yet in spite of such a grievance, you have given 
this excellent skill and attention which has saved the life of 
my son.” He pointed beyond. “Yonder,” he continued, “is 
a caravan to convey you and the white woman to the coast. 
Three hundred men, sworn to protect you, will be your guard. 
In the train are five camels laden with food, silks, ivory, and 
a bag of gold. It is all yours. But this does not pay my 
debt. If you will come back after the war, Africa shall be 
yours.” 

“I thank you, Borambo,” answered Partridge. “I am re¬ 
joiced at the opportunity for service. I want no reward. If 
your men will convey us to the seaport, I am abundantly re¬ 
paid. Your son is well. I wish that you may both enjoy 
useful and happy lives.” 

Borambo insisted that his gifts should be taken along, and 
Partridge returned to the house to make the last preparations 
for the departure of Mary Ballantyne and himself. 

“I wish we might stay here forever,” Mary said. “In this 
house!” 

211 


212 FLAMES OF FAITH 

“I wish we might,” rejoined Partridge. “Oh, Mary—I wish 
we might! ” 

Mary made a last visit to her father’s grave, and planted 
a flowering bush upon it. Her personal things were already 
packed, and on the same morning, before the sun was high, 
the two friends mounted the camels, and escorted by the na¬ 
tives, made their way into the jungle. 

The journey northward to the coast was made without 
any untoward incident. At night they slept in one large tent 
which the natives set up for them. By day they rode side 
by side, conversing of Africa and of the war. At the seacoast 
Partridge made a sale of all the treasures which Borambo 
had given him, and arranged to have the money received for 
them, together with the enormous sum of gold which he found 
in the bag, transferred to his credit in New York. When this 
was done, a ship was found which bore the two travelers to 
France. 

When they had reached Paris, the hour of parting came. 
Partridge took Mary’s two hands in his and gazed long into 
her eyes. 

“Events come to us without our seeking them,” he said. 
u l never dreamed of meeting you, until I found myself before 
you in Africa. All that happened there happened of itself. 
You know that I love you. But I must not again intrude 
myself into your life. I am going into the war in one service, 
you are going into it in another service. You know that I am 
married. I wish you to be free—free in heart and mind, but 
my love will always be with you.” 

There were tears in her eyes, and she held tightly to his 
hands. 

“I cannot speak,” she said. “It is not permitted to women 
to speak. We must wait to be spoken to. But we shall meet 
again. I feel—I know—that we shall meet again.” 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


213 


“I wish that our souls might speak to each other without 
passing the words through our lips,” he said. 

“They can—they do!” she replied. 

“But we must give them utterance—a lame and crude ut¬ 
terance,” he said. “And so—good-bye!” 

“How lame and crude that sounds!” she protested. “Yet 
I can do no better! Good-bye!” 



t 


CHAPTER XLV 


When Partridge reached France it was midsummer, and 
the conflict was raging in every corner of the old world. Ger¬ 
many had armed and prepared herself beyond anything that 
mankind had ever witnessed since the creation, and when the 
dread hour struck she had begun her task of conquering the 
world in its remotest quarters. As time sped on it seemed 
that she was succeeding in her purpose, and day after day 
she developed new strength, new resources, and new diabolisms, 
until humanity stood aghast. 

The missionary enlisted in the foreign legion as a chaplain, 
and his assignment at once took him to the front. While 
Partridge found that he could be of real value in comforting 
the wounded and dying soldiers, it was not long before he 
saw that his medical and surgical skill would be of infinitely 
greater value to these same men; and when his superior of¬ 
ficers learned that he was a noted physician, they transferred 
him to the hospital branch, and he there found his days and 
nights occupied with the most appealing service that his life 
had yet encountered. He was quick to take up the latest 
methods of surgery, and he performed wonders in alleviating 
the sufferings of the wounded soldiers. 

One day he turned from the cot of a sufferer to salute an 
officer who was approaching, and was surprised to find in a 
colonel’s uniform his life-long friend, Arthur Carrington. The 
men grasped hands. 

“I hear wonderful things about you, John,” said Car¬ 
rington. 


214 


FLAMES OF FAITH 215 

“I don’t know what they can be, Arthur,” replied Partridge. 
“I J* ust kee P Pegging away, day and night—that’s all.” 

“But you look ill,” cried Carrington. “You are overworked 
—you are worn-out!” 

“There is no time for rest,” answered Partridge, with a 
weary smile. 

And the two friends parted. 

As a faithful member of the grand army of civilization, 
which was fighting to preserve the whole sum of human prog¬ 
ress, Partridge endeavored to get very close to God. He 
besought the Almighty to protect the innocent and to turn 
back the culpable. Yet as the weeks passed he failed to per¬ 
ceive that God was listening. He began to doubt the very 
foundation of spiritual things. Where was the Maker of the 
world? Where was the Creator of the universe? Where was 
the Author of Life? Where was the Omnipotent Magistrate 
holding all law and all authority in his hand? Where was the 
Father who pitieth his children? Why did he let this thing 
go on? If he had no power to stop it, was he God? If he 
had power to stop it, and would not, was he worthy of any¬ 
thing but the execration of mankind? 

The Germans were shelling the line without pause, and the 
casualties were taxing the resources of all the hospital stations. 
Partridge, with his staff of surgeons and nurses, gave first aid 
to hundreds of patients, trying always to comfort their minds 
as well as their bodies. 

It was characteristic of badly-wounded men that they cried 
out for their mothers. “If I only had mother!” the broken 
warrior would exclaim; and the pangs of their hurt bodies 
would be enhanced by the agony of homesickness. When they 
knew that they were about to die, their last message would be, 
“Tell mother about me!” and the last sigh was always, 
“Mother!” 

Once, when the day sped on with its multiplied death, and 


216 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

night fell on the field, he felt himself irresistibly impelled to 
go to the front and see what measure of succor he could carry 
to any of the wounded that had not yet been brought in. 
Obtaining permission, he threw a hospital cloak of white lamb- 
skin over his shoulders, and when it was quite dark, and the 
clouds foretold an approaching storm, he passed beyond the 
first trenches into No Man’s Land. Wandering over the field 
at random, he found agony and death on every hand. He 
crept in among the bodies, hoping to find some soldiers in 
whom the spark of life yet lingered. An occasional flash of 
lightning revealed to many a fevered brain his white-robed 
figure ministering like a Savior to those who cried for succor. 
Not even the German sentinels would shoot at such an appari¬ 
tion. Feeling suddenly a movement beside him, he grasped a 
figure which was creeping on the ground. 

“Who are you?” he cried. 

“Who are you?” demanded the other. 

Both men held their pistols ready. 

“An American!” said Partridge. 

“So am I!” 

Partridge turned his flashlight, and recognized the young 
American priest. 

“Alan Carlyle!” he cried. 

“John Partridge!” 

He shut off the light. 

“I could stand it no longer back there,” said Partridge. I 
had to come out here. But there is so little that we can do 

here on the field.” . 

“Y es _x have not found one man with the breath of life 

in him,” said Carlyle. 

“Do you know what I want to do?” demanded Partridge. I 
want to stand up here—and pray! I want to ask God to 
stop this horror.” 


FLAMES OF FAITH 217 

“I will pray with you,” said the priest, rising. “This world 
has got to have God in it.” 

The two missionaries stood side by side, and Partridge, with 
his face turned toward the heavens, poured out his soul. 

“O God!” he cried, with the tears streaming down his 
face. “If thou canst behold this agony—stop it! One flash 
of thy presence out of yonder sky, and the Germans will fall 
on their faces before thee. One word of thunderous command 
out of this vast darkness and they will quit the stricken land 
of France. Thou art the Father of us all—then pity these 
men, so helpless amidst the hate and murder of war. Remem¬ 
ber their mothers at home—remember their wives—remember 
their sisters. O God! Stop this horror! O God! Stop 
this horror! ” 

Then Alan Carlyle prayed. 

“O God!” cried the priest. “Thou art the captain of dis¬ 
mayed armies. Thy people here are sore afflicted and op¬ 
pressed. The invaders are murdering the men—they are 
murdering the women—they are murdering the children! 
They are murdering the land! In ancient times thou didst 
send thy chariots of fire out of the heavens to fight against the 
oppressor. Send them now! And drive these wicked men into 
their own country. Stop this horror, O God! Stop this 
horror! ” 

There was a burst of thunder and vivid sheets of lightning, 
followed by a flood of rain which drenched the field of death 
and all those who lay upon it. Was God coming down, with 
all the hosts of Heaven, at their call? In their distraction they 
let themselves believe it. For many minutes the young min¬ 
isters continued to call upon God almost with frenzy to appear 
upon the earth and end the war. They spent the last vestige 
of their faith in an appeal to the Almighty. They challenged 
him, for his own honor and dignity, to come out of the clouds 
and restore the order of his own handiwork. But there was 


218 FLAMES OF FAITH 

no answer from on high. The great guns continued their 
booming, havoc and slaughter fell upon the helpless children 
of earth, and when the baffled young apostles had spent their 
strength in the tempest, and were exhausted, and drenched to 
the skin, they crept back into the trenches, broken and disil¬ 
lusioned, and resumed work together in the hospital. 


CHAPTER XLVI 


At the end of the next week, overwork, exposure and anxiety 
had so wrought upon Partridge that he fell into a fever. 
Growing weaker from day to day, he tried to keep on with his 
surgery, until he fell in a faint and was carried to bed. De¬ 
lirium seized upon his brain. At moments he strove to control 
his thinking faculties, and would sometimes be able to picture 
his room and the people in it. He knew that an orderly was 
always present to minister to him and give him food and 
medicine. Many of the officers came in to ask about him. 
He heard them speak of telegrams and letters of inquiry con¬ 
cerning his sickness. His tired fingers wandered through his 
hair. Was he having delusions—phantasms? He must keep 
his dreams out of his brain. Arthur Carrington once seemed 
to pass before his disturbed eyes, and Alan Carlyle more than 
once. That might have been true, but he was afraid to ask, 
lest they would tell him he was wandering. 

Yes—he knew that he was wandering, for here was Mary 
Ballantyne beside him! 

How utterly silly it all was! Mary, he told himself, was, 
as a matter of course, with the British Army—how could she 
be here at his bedside? He pushed her away, as if to rid his 
mind of the longing for her presence. But she would not go. 
When he closed his eyes, her hand was on his brow. When 
he looked toward the wall he would lose her, but when he 
turned back, she was there. And often her arms were around 
him, and her face was beside his. 

Then, while they tried to restrain him and soothe his frenzy, 
he began to tell them of Africa. He spoke of Bonjalungo. 

219 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


220 

He cried out to Zilda that he was going to baptize her, and 
warned her to beware of the monster in the waters. He 
pleaded with the people of Pondomesi to take him back—he 
was a good doctor, he told them—he would let Father O’Hara 
teach them their religion if they would only let him serve 
them and live among them. Then he called upon the other 
missionaries by name, and asked them to take him into their 
work. There was a church burning somewhere—why did not 
God put out the flames? Then he spoke of the African Col¬ 
lege—he did not mean to mislead the young men—he was 
trying to help them. No one wanted him. But he had found 
the real Jesus. “No one knows him but me!” he shouted. 

Then he heard a voice say, “His temperature is one hundred 
and six.” And then another voice, “He is dying!” 

Why not? He laughed aloud. What’s the use of life? He 
would get out of it all, with these other soldiers. He was 
going. He was just going to walk out of his body, and leave 
it there on the bed, and go right up through the roof into the 
blue ether, and be absorbed there with all the others who 
were dying. Yes, he would go out of his body. He was going 
out of it—now! He felt himself leaving that worn body there 
on the bed. 

And the people in the room thought that he had gone. 

But something was holding him back. A hand was holding 
his hand, and there was a cheek pressed against his cheek, 
and tears were falling from other eyes upon his face—so 
many tears that his face was wet. And as he strove to get 
back into his body—and to see, and to feel, and to understand, 
he gazed long and hard upon that face which lay against his 
face. And he shouted: 

“Mary!” 

Yes—the hand was holding him back, and a voice was 
calling to him, “Don’t go—don’t go!” There were sobs in 
the voice. “Oh, stay here! Come back—come back—to me!” 


FLAMES OF FAITH 221 

Then there came into his mind a line from an old hymn 
which he had sung in childhood: “Hold on to life!” 

“I won't go!” he shouted. “Hold on to life! That's it— 
hold on to life!” 

And the voice cried: 

“Yes, John—hold on to life—my darling! Hold on to life! 
Darling—Darling! ” 

Then the hand held him more firmly than ever, and there 
seemed to be a very shower of tears falling upon his face, and 
someone kissed him—once, twice—five or six times. 

“Hold on to life!” he murmured. “Hold on to life!” 

All night they worked with him; and in the morning the 
doctors said he had passed the crisis and would live. 

At the end of three days he spoke to his orderly—spoke 
slowly and haltingly as if he were sure of being contradicted. 

“I thought there was a young Englishwoman here,” he 
said, “—a Miss Ballantyne—while I was delirious.” 

“Yes—she was here,” replied the attendant. “She left 
yesterday on a Red Cross order to go to Soissons.” 


CHAPTER XLVII 


The thunder of the captains and the shouting were ended. 
For four years the world had employed its whole strength in 
killing and destroying; now it must take up the task of 
restoring civilization. 

Partridge had developed a sympathetic and responsive 
friendship with Alan Carlyle. The young priest had told him 
that he had heard that Father O'Hara had returned to America 
in the third year of the war, leaving Father Mulligan, another 
Irish priest, in charge of the African station. He himself had 
left Pondomesi against the commands of Father O’Hara, and 
he feared that this had put him in disfavor with the authorities 
of the Church. Now that the war was ended new plans must 
be formed. 

“What do you say,” demanded Partridge, “to our going back 
to Africa—you and I?” 

“What for?” 

“Well, I have thought a great deal about Africa, and I have 
some new ideas for the help of the people there. You may not 
agree with me, but my experiences there—and this war—have 
changed me through and through. I want to go back and 
develop those savages—mentally, spiritually, physically—but 
on new lines. But—I warn you!—I shall get pretty far away 
from the old system.” 

“I think I have felt the same changing forces,” answered 
Carlyle. “At any rate, I will go with you.” 

Partridge found soldiers and officers everywhere, who, like 
222 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


223 


himself, had no immediate plans at home, and after some 
weeks of careful inquiry and inspection, he selected a group 
of twenty young men, most of whom were recently out of the 
colleges, and all fitted for special work such as he aimed now 
to undertake. 

In a month they were back in Africa, and the airplanes, now 
augmented in number, carried him and Carlyle, together with 
some six of the party, to Pondomesi, the rest of the expedition 
following with the slower camel and mule train. 

When Partridge and his friends stepped out of the airplanes, 
Bonjalungo and his fighting men met them with no signs of 
welcome. 

“We don’t want the white men here again!” he cried, bran¬ 
dishing his spear threateningly. “We do not want you or 
your religion. We wish to live to ourselves.” 

A few years ago the Bible words would have leapt from 
Partridge’s tongue—“No man liveth unto himself!”—but he 
used other words today. 

“We have come back to help you in another way,” he said. 
“We are still your friends. You need us as physicians and 
teachers. You need us as brothers. You need us in other 
ways.” 

“Where is Father Mulligan?” demanded Carlyle. 

“Dead!” answered the chief, defiantly. “Yes—dead—and 
eaten! ” 

“You killed him?” 

“Yes.” 

Colonel Atwood, in charge of the airplanes, proposed the 
immediate execution of the savage chief, but Partridge 
protested. 

“Surely we have had enough of death!” he said. “We are 
not here for revenge. These are the things we would redeem 
these people from. We are no longer fighting for their souls, 
but we would rescue them from the vices of ignorance—mur- 


224 FLAMES OF FAITH 

der, cannibalism, and these other things.” Then turning 
toward Bonjalungo, he said: 

“My good friend—I am sorry for what you have done. But 
we have really come here to help you. We are going to make 
life better for you in every way. I beg you to let us stay for 
three months. If at the end of that time you don't want us 
to remain, I pledge you my word of honor that we will all go 
away and never see you again.” 

Bonjalungo had objected to their presence mainly because 
of a sense of guilt, but there was something in the appealing 
manner of Partridge which he could not resist. 

“If you will come back as the Great White Doctor,” he said. 

“Yes—I will come in that way,” answered Partridge, smil¬ 
ing. “And my friends will all be your friends. That's settled 
—we stay!” 

While they were adjusting themselves to their new home, 
Alan Carlyle had made an investigation of the place, and he 
now came to Partridge with his report. 

“They have had a complete reversion to heathenism,” he 
said. “The Witch Doctor professed for a time to being a 
Catholic, but he was never sincere, and when he could pervert 
enough of the people he murdered Father Mulligan and they 
held a cannibal feast, Bonjalungo and the rest eating the body. 
They have taken the statues of Jesus, the Virgin, and the 
saints, and destroyed them. The altar is broken in pieces. 
Everything that we taught them has been discarded, and they 
have plunged into a deeper abyss of savagery than they were 
in when the mission was started.” 

“Very well,” replied Partridge. “We shall get them out of 
that in short order, but not again by a plea of soul-saving. 
It is my idea to civilize them first. Teach them to respect 
life and property. Organize a trade school. Develop a com¬ 
mercial faculty. Why, this forest teems with elephants whose 
tusks will make these people prosperous, and with fur-bearing 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


225 


animals whose skins will sell profitably if we can get them 
to market. We have transportation at our door—here, on 
the river—if we build a boat or two. That is my plan, Alan— 
get them to work, keep them busy, teach them morality and 
righteousness—and we shall then redeem them in the only 
way—I am sure it is the only way—in which people can be 
redeemed.” 

“You don’t want them to be Catholics?” asked Carlyle. 

“No—nor Protestants,” he replied. 

In a few days the new system was established. The helpers 
had all arrived, and each man was assigned to his task. A 
school for the instruction of the natives in the simple things 
was inaugurated, and every man and woman was taught a 
trade; how to sew, how to cure skins, how to work with ham¬ 
mer and saw. It was not long before new and better houses 
were set up. Next they built a boat, which was to be rowed 
down the river to obtain an engine for the return trip. The 
trading brought them fabrics, beads, and useful things in 
exchange for skins. The scant clothing about their waists was 
now amplified by complete dress. Bonjalungo’s chieftainship 
was elevated in importance, and the larger enjoyment of life 
quickly compensated him for the loss of his heathen customs. 

The physical reconstruction of the village was followed by 
a sober appeal for upright living. Polygamy they would not 
give up, but in every other feature they accepted the instruc¬ 
tion of their white friends. 

The Witch Doctor alone stood unreconstructed. One day he 
was accused before Bonjalungo of an act of cannibalism—a 
little girl had been killed and eaten. He did not deny the 
charge, and Bonjalungo decreed that he should be thrown to 
the crocodiles, and when that was done the community felt 
itself well rid of his evil influence. 

Partridge sent messengers to the other stations, and was 
informed that the missionaries who had originally come with 


226 FLAMES OF FAITH 

him to Africa, after installing younger men in their places, 
had all returned home, had married, and were preaching in 
churches in New York. But their African flocks were in 
greater or less decay. Partridge therefore sent for the chiefs 
and held a grand conference at which it was agreed that the 
educational and industrial system which he had established 
at Pondomesi should be extended to the other four settlements. 
White directors were placed in each village. Then a hospital 
was built for the use of all the tribes, and a complete staff 
and equipment installed. The trading in ivory and furs made 
them all prosperous. No religion was taught except a system 
of righteous conduct, with God over all. 

One day Partridge spoke to Bonjalungo. 

“The three months are up,” he said. “Do you wish us 
to go?” 

The chief seized him by both arms. 

“No!” he cried. “We want you to stay. This time— 
this time—we know what you are trying to do for us. We 
shall never again fall!” 

Some of the young soldiers whom Partridge had installed 
in the settlements sent to America for their wives; others 
had their sweethearts come to them and were married by 
Partridge in the jungle. These helpers were taking their 
share in the commercial development of the territory, and 
were well satisfied to remain indefinitely. 

One day, at the end of a year, a letter came from Car¬ 
rington, who was now back at his work in New York. 
When Partridge had read it, he showed it to Alan Carlyle. 
It enclosed a bulletin issued by the census bureau of the 
United States Government, and announced that the census 
showed that sixty millions of the inhabitants of the United 
States had no connection with any church whatever. 

The two men pondered the statement. 

“Is it the war?” asked Carlyle. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


227 


“No—the figures were nearly the same before the war.” 

“And while you and I,” said Carlyle, “have been here 
in the depths of a trackless jungle, trying to save the souls 
of these cannibal savages, sixty millions of the people at 
home are counted as being out of the church?” 

“Yes.” 

The airplanes had brought them a goodly lot of late 
magazines and newspapers, which they immediately began 
to devour. Carlyle turned to an article from the Atlantic, 
containing some new material relating to Tolstoy. 

“He was excommunicated by the Russian Church,” ex¬ 
plained Carlyle, as he skimmed the article. “He boldly 
declared that his disloyalty to his church emanated from 
what he regarded as his loyalty to the thing which he 
believed to be true Christianity. He says that he began 
by loving his orthodox faith more than his repose; then 
he came to love Christianity more than his church, and at 
last to love truth more than all else in the world. Then 
the Russian priests came after him with arguments, cajol¬ 
eries and threats, to drag him back into the fold, but he 
would no longer follow them.” 

“It seems to be the path that you and I are treading,” 
said Partridge. 

Partridge was turning over another copy of the Atlantic 
M ontMy. 

“What’s the matter with the Atlantic?” he demanded, 
laughing. “Here is a letter from the young people of a 
certain church inquiring of the editor whether he would 
publish the letters of the Apostle Paul if they were orig¬ 
inally composed by Paul today.” 

“And what says the editor?” demanded Carlyle. 

“He tried to side-step,” answered Partridge. “He was in 
a delicate situation, but he clearly leaves the impression 


228 FLAMES OF FAITH 

that the Epistles would perforce join the Rejected 
Addresses.” 

“Even churchmen are becoming disquieted,” said Car¬ 
lyle, who was scanning a newspaper. “Here, in the New York 
Times , is a speech from the President of Hamilton College, 
telling his audience that students do not pray! He says that 
the present-day college man talks of truth, honor, and service 
to others, but that when you talk to him of a personal God, 
who goes along with him and lets man lean on him, the college 
man does not understand what you are talking about.” 

“And here,” said Partridge, “is the account of a meeting 
of the Sunday School Association of the Atlantic Conference, 
in New York, where the Secretary states that 22,000,000 boys, 
youths and young men under twenty-five years of age, have 
renounced their religious faith and left the Sunday Schools.” 

“What’s the matter with our country?” asked Carlyle, his 
face shaded with anxiety. 

“Is not all this an illumination of the changes that are going 
on in the mind of the world?” inquired Partridge. “Particu¬ 
larly in America?” 

“Don’t you think we need a missionary movement at 
home?” demanded Carlyle. 

“Yes—but not for the people.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Partridge was silent a long time. Then he replied: 

“We need a missionary movement in America—and in the 
world—which will save the souls of the churches.” 


CHAPTER XLVIII 


Partridge wrote to Mary Ballantyne not oftener than every 
three or four months, and always received prompt replies to 
his letters. He purposely made his communications infrequent, 
and confined his expressions to words of warm friendship, 
because he felt that he had no right to employ the tone of 
affection which his heart unceasingly prompted him to use. 
It was his unselfish hope that she would find her heart attracted 
to some man worthy and free to marry her, yet he knew that 
nothing could cause him a more poignant regret than just 
such a thing as that. Mary, on her part, wrote to him with 
a corresponding reserve, exhibiting a constant interest in every¬ 
thing that concerned his welfare, but keeping a discreet check 
upon her own ardent feelings. 

Partridge wrote also to Old Skinflint to ask if there was 
any news concerning Mazie, and in due time received a letter 
from his friend telling him that Mazie and Jim were still 
occupying the house at the shore, and that their intemperate 
habits had caused the police to raid the place once or twice, 
but that otherwise there was nothing to report. 

During all this time Partridge and Carlyle continued to 
develop their work at Pondomesi and in the villages near it. 
In the meantime they thought and talked and communed 
together on the astounding fact which Carrington had told 
them. 

“It is from all churches that they are going/' said Carlyle, 
“—the Catholic, the Protestant, the Jewish! I have studied 
these statistics until I know them backwards. More than 

229 


230 FLAMES OF FAITH 

one-half the population of the United States out of the church! 
They are not lacking conversion—that’s the pity of it! They 
have been in the church—and are now out! John—tell me 
this—why does God allow it?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“But if there is a true faith, why does it not carry itself 
to conviction into their souls?” 

“Is there a true faith, Alan?” 

“Sixty million people in America are saying no,” he an¬ 
swered. “But—John—can’t we bring them the proof?” 

“What proof could we take?” asked Partridge, smiling. 

“Oh, I know what you mean. You and I, here together, in 
the closest fellowship that two men can cherish, have been 
brought up in two systems of the Christian religion that are 
as far apart as the poles. I a Catholic—you a Protestant. 
That is why you are smiling.” 

“Yes, Alan, that is why.” 

“If God would only tell us!” said Carlyle. 

“Your priests and our preachers say that God has told us. 
But no two of us ever accept him in the same way, and he 
never tells us where our errors lie.” 

“He never speaks to us?” 

“No—he never does tell us—he never did tell us.” 

“But why does not God lead us?” 

“Do you remember that night that you and I prayed to 
him on the battlefield?” asked Partridge. “How we implored 
him to appear on the earth?” 

“I can never forget it.” 

“Nor I. But do you know that I am strongly moved about 
these sixty million Americans? I feel that there is work 
at home.” 

“But what work?” 

“The work that you and I are doing here. Look at these 
natives. While we depended upon our creeds—our ceremonies 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


231 


—our sacraments—and all these statues—to save them, they 
revolted from us. Now that we have given them work, and 
education, and righteous conduct, divorced from all emotional¬ 
ism and ritual, they are docile, contented, happy and faithful. 
Above all, they quietly and contentedly believe that Jesus 
Christ is the greatest leader of mankind that the world has 
ever known.” 

“And what is your conclusion?” 

“We all believe in witchcraft.” 

“Who does?” 

“You and I.” 

“I don’t think I follow you.” 

“Our credibility about fables and revelations is precisely 
the credibility that produces witchcraft. Why, two hundred 
years ago we burnt witches in New England, while your people 
were stretching unbelievers on the rack in Europe.” 

“I see now what you mean. And our faith today is of the 
middle ages?” 

“Worse than that. It is ancient Israel—even ancient 
Egypt.” 

“And what is your plan?” 

“This—that we should appeal to America as we have ap¬ 
pealed to Africa.” 

“And get these sixty millions back into the church?” 

“No! I would get the church to move forward on to the 
ground which the sixty millions have occupied.” 

“John—you have revealed a new world to me. Since I have 
known you I have never had any fear of death—I have never 
thought about saving my soul, or anyone else’s soul.” 

“I know the spirit that has moved you!” cried Partridge. 

“But we call ourselves ministers of God,” said Alan. 

“I think we are,” replied Partridge. 

“And we can still be missionaries?” asked Carlyle. 


232 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


“Yes—to the noblest people in the world, and with the 
highest message.” 

“What is that message?” 

“The same that we have brought here—human service, as 
taught by our Great Captain. Let us go back to New York— 
you and I—and take up the greatest work that has ever been 
done in this world.” 

“What is that?” 

“We shall Americanize the religion of the Americans!” 


CHAPTER XLIX 


As soon as Partridge felt assured that his work in Africa was 
organized on a sound basis, he devolved the direction upon 
his very capable staff, while he and Carlyle started on the 
trip home. 

On the instant of their departure from Africa to make the 
long voyage to America, Partridge began the preparation of 
a book for which he had collected a great mass of material, 
choosing for his title “Humanity and the Church.” In this 
work he narrated in an impersonal way the religious experi¬ 
ences of his career, showing the vicissitudes which had fol¬ 
lowed his work from the time of his entrance into the Christian 
ministry, and developing with clearness and courage the change 
in his convictions, and the evidence, scriptural and otherwise, 
which had altered his judgment upon the fundamental prin¬ 
ciples of religion. He did not hesitate to discuss the inspira¬ 
tion of the Bible, nor did he falter in questioning its authority 
and its credibility. The book was composed with a scholar¬ 
ship which ranged over the whole field of human evolution and 
social development, and its conclusions were the conclusions 
which were represented by his present stand upon a platform 
of service to mankind. If religion did not mean service, he 
declared that it did not mean anything that was worthy of 
the attention of the men and women of this age. And the 
great pattern of conduct and life must be the person of Jesus 
of Nazareth. 

He read the work, chapter by chapter, to Alan Carlyle, who 
declared at the finish that it would create an epoch in religious 
thinking in America. 


233 


234 FLAMES OF FAITH 

Upon his arrival in New York he sent the completed manu¬ 
script of his book to some of the greatest publishers, but the 
first two or three who read it seemed to miss its big message 
and rejected it lest it might offend some of the churches. 
Heavens! That was his purpose in writing it—to offend the 
churches, as Hamlet had offended his mother “I must be 
cruel only to be kind!” But at last one of them caught its 
inspiration, and began at once to put it through the press. 

On the day following his arrival in New York Partridge 
called at Carrington’s office by appointment. 

“Do you remember my offer to you when we were in 

Africa?” demanded the lawyer. 

“That whenever I was ready to establish a real church, you 
would build it—yes, I remember.” 

“Well—I take it you have had enough of soul saving. The 
world is topsy-turvy—and seems to be going to the devil as 
fast as it can go. Statesmen and politicians are up in the 
air, little men are dominating our national life, the Govern¬ 
ment is taxing the life, heart and soul out of business, foolish 
laws are strangling us like the snakes that entwine themselves 
around that fellow and his two sons in the museum, our great 
captains of industry are losing their initiative, their enterprise, 
their courage. Labor is degraded and exploited by a criminal 
leadership. Crime is rampant everywhere. The churches are 
powerless, and sixty millions of our people are out of the 
church.” 

“A pretty bad situation,” said Partridge. 

“I tell you, John, it’s true. But the worst of it is that part 
about the churches. I have always looked to the church to 
take the leadership of civilization. She has never done it. 
That’s why I have talked about a real church. The churches 
have been wasting their time—yes, and frittering away their 
resources—in the mean, narrow and nasty little disputes about 
matters of faith—like those chaps who wrecked your mission 


FLAMES OF FAITH 235 

in Africa. By Jove, John, what a great day that was for you 
when they all raced into the jungle and pleaded with you to 
come back and save their bacon—after they had treated you 
like dirt!—I would have given a fortune to have been in 
the forest there with the lions and tigers and snakes and 
monkeys, and seen that bunch on their knees to you! But 
what was I talking about?” 

Partridge was laughing at his friend’s indignant humor. 

“About the sixty millions out of the church.” 

“Yes—that’s just it—speaks for itself. Sixty million Ameri¬ 
cans who don’t belong to any church—good people who are 
sick and tired of being told things they know are not true. 
The world off its hinges—and all these organized churches 
singing psalms and delivering sleepy lectures, while the great 
world departs from them and they never know it—by Jove— 
they never know it!” 

“Well, what’s to be done?” 

“Start a real church—here in New York. Throw away your 
foolish creeds and start a real church.” 

“What do you mean by a real church?” 

“I don’t know—I told you before I didn’t know. But I 
have an idea about it in the back of my head, and so have 
you! You haven’t lost your real faith—neither have I—and 
by Jove, John—neither have these sixty millions! What I 
want to do is to catch this multitude before the relaxation 
which is sure to follow this war gets ’em out of control. I 
love this country, John—I love America—I believe in her 
destiny—and so do you. But little men are driving her to 
destruction—with their feeble abilities. It’s the same way 
with the church. The church has gone to seed—these sixty 
millions will testify to that—they don’t have to testify to it. 
The existence of sixty million Americans out of the church 
proves it! Now, I am going to start a real church, and you’re 
going to run it, and we will catch these sixty millions—and 


236 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

save America—have I set you on fire?—we will save America! 

“Yes—you have set me on fire. Go on!” 

“Well, you come to my house tonight to dinner. I am 
going to have eleven millionaires there—I will make twelve— 
you will make thirteen. Your value is greater in a better 
currency than all the rest put together. Thirteen at table for 
good luck. But we’re not superstitious. Now, an American 
millionaire will give you all the money you can ever think 
about if you only show him that it’s for a good purpose. And 
I’m going to get so much money, John, that it will make your 
eyes pop out of your head!” 

Carrington was fairly shouting now, in his wild enthusiasm. 

“Your eyes will pop out of your head. And you and I will 
take all that money—ha, ha!—all that gold, and John—we’ll 
start a real church, with sixty million members. Think of it, 
man—well have something in little old America that the world 
never dreamed about—and you’re going to be the boss—think 
of that, John—the boss of a church with sixty million members! 
Ha, ha! What will the Pope say, and the Protestant preachers, 
and the Metropolitan of Constantinople—and the Grand Llama 
of Tibet—and the Calif of Bagdad—and the Ahkoond of 
Swat—ha, ha, ha!—and all those other high and mighty digni¬ 
taries—when they hear about our real church!” And his voice 
rolled through the suite of offices in a rollicking burst of 
enthusiasm and mirth. 

“It’s the greatest thing in the world, Arthur, if-” 

“There’s no if about it. Be there at seven o’clock, and 
watch Aladdin rub the lamp!” 



CHAPTER L 


There were exactly thirteen at Colonel Arthur Carrington’s 
table that night and they represented every white race and 
every shade of religious belief. Twelve of them, with their 
wealth combined, were worth many times twelve million dollars 
—they were the biggest and the richest men in America. The 
thirteenth man was a missionary who had failed in Africa in 
trying to save the people there by his system of belief. He 
now brought to this table his failure and his genius. 

The dinner itself was simple enough for a camp of soldiers, 
except that there was good wine for all. And when the cigars 
were lighted, Carrington made them a speech. 

He told them what he had told Partridge that morning— 
the failure of the churches to hold the people, the revolt of 
the masses, the deadly census bulletin, the perils that were 
sure to follow the war—the cry for a church relieved of tradi¬ 
tion and in touch with modern life, and the necessity for an 
arresting force. Then he launched out on his project for 
“a real church”—and this time he described it to his guests. 

“My idea is,” he said, “to organize a church just as we 
would organize a great steel works, or a railroad, and put 
just as much money and just as much management into it 
as you would put into a steel works or a railroad. Under 
the present plan the preachers run the churches, and they 
don’t know how.” 

“Why don’t they know how?” asked Harvey Rumboldt. 

“I’ll tell you why,” replied Carrington. “Most of the 
preachers spend their time from Monday to Saturday in the 

237 


238 FLAMES OF FAITH 

preparation of indifferent sermons, and in calling men to a 
repentance which really means nothing but their acceptance 
of absurd and impossible creeds. The preachers must be 
steered by men who know more about life and its needs than 
they do. Now, what would you say if I were to tell you that 
we must do away with all the preachers?” 

«I would say that you sound like a red Russian on a soap¬ 
box,” answered Albert Hoffman, who was a good vestryman. 

“Exactly—and so I would be,” replied Carrington, laughing. 
“But the preacher’s sermon has become a deadly menace to 
militant religion. The sermon is the main idea—and it’s 
wrong. My church is going to do away with the sermon. We 
shall perhaps allow a ten-minute commentary on life and its 
obligations—but service should come in at the place where 
the sermon now usurps action. I don’t mean to use any soap¬ 
box methods, but I am going to transform all the preachers 
in America into ministers-” 

“Great!—I catch the idea!” shouted Hoffman. 

“Ministers is what Jesus called for—not preachers. And 
we must have great hosts of stockholders—just like the rail¬ 
roads and the steel mills—working for dividends.” 

“What kind of dividends?” asked one of his guests. 

“Dividends in the form of righteousness and mercy,” he 
answered. “Then quit all this nonsense about belief and 
creeds and sects—why!—I hate these church creeds as a fish 
hates Friday. Let’s have a church—don’t call it anything— 
or, if it must have a name, call it the Church in the Living 
Heart. There’s an idea for you! This church is not going 
to be a physical thing—brick, stone, mortar—no! The Church 
in the Living Heart! That’s another way of saying that the 
Kingdom of Heaven is within you.” 

“That’s bully,” said one. 

“Yes, it is bully,” he replied. “That name itself would be 
a call to service. And it doesn’t make any difference what 



FLAMES OF FAITH 


239 

a man has been brought up to be—a Protestant, Catholic, 
Jew, Mohammedan, Buddhist or Shinto—when he gets inside 
the church—or, better still, when the church gets inside of 
him—he is going to be made to feel that that is his church.” 

“How are you going to do it?” they demanded. 

“By service—not belief—service!” came his answer. “That 
is what Jesus tried to do—and he failed. They have twisted 
his system so out of shape that he wouldn’t recognize it. I’m 
not trying to preach—I’m trying to tell you a hard fact. My 
church will strive to put righteousness and mercy into the 
hearts of the American people. That’s all they need—right¬ 
eousness and mercy. My church must get itself into politics, 
and business, and industry, and society, and labor. And we 
shall bring this church into active association with every insti¬ 
tution in the world which strives for human service and human 
happiness. And then, with this basis of righteousness and 
mercy, I would feed the hungry, clothe the naked, get jobs 
for the unemployed, set up hospitals for the sick, class-rooms 
for the untaught, nurseries for the babies, and I would heal 
the brokenhearted.” 

“Tell us how?” they asked. 

“All right, I can give you exact specifications,” he answered, 
full of his enterprise. “Men are building churches across the 
street from each other and fighting for patronage like rival 
merchants. I would put a stop to that. One church for each 
neighborhood, and all the surrounding residences belong to 
that church’s parish. Every human need in that neighbor¬ 
hood must be taken care of by that one church.” 

“Good idea, but how is it to be done?” asked Rumboldt. 

“That’s where the stockholders come in,” he replied, “that’s 
where the millionaires come in—that’s where I prove to you 
that the church must be organized like the railroads and the 
steel mills if it is going to survive. Now listen. Every hos¬ 
pital, every orphan asylum, every institution that exists for 


240 FLAMES OF FAITH 

the amelioration of human suffering must be brought into 
active connection with this church that I am talking about. 
The church shall become the vestibule to relief from every 
pain that afflicts the world—open night and day, mind you, 
all the year around.” 

“And the money for this?” they asked. 

“The money will flow from the people like a stream of water 
that will wash the human heart clean from all its afflictions. 
Don’t you see—service stations instead of fancy pulpits? 

“Isn’t that a refined system of social service?” asked one 
of his guests. 

“Yes—perhaps it is. But what is religion after all—if we 
are to get away from this cursed system of creeds—what is 
religion after all, but righteous service? Doesn’t the Bible 
itself say that true and undefiled religion is to visit the widows 
and orphans? That—and nothing more! Look at the Young 
Men’s Christian Association—that is pretty nearly my idea of 
the church I have in mind—service without ritual—and its 
membership open to every human soul. It s the same with 
that Catholic Order—your church, Billy—the Knights of 
Columbus—there again, service without ritual, and open to 
all sects. And I will say the same thing for the Young Men’s 
Hebrew Association—broad enough in its charity to take in 
the whole world. These organizations must all become parts 
of my church—the Church in the Living Heart!” 

“Big idea—splendid—magnificent 1 ” they cried. 

“Now, we won’t spend our money on bricks and mortar— 
it’s a mistake to think of a church as a building!” he went on. 
“We’ll hire a hall—we’ll hire the biggest auditorium in New 
York—but only as a headquarters for service. And we will 
transform all these church buildings into service stations. Our 
best work must be done outside of the physical structure. I 
don’t want a little bit of a building on a side street—we have 
ten thousand churches too many now. What I want is an 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


241 


organization of sixty millions—a spiritual church, without a 
creed—big enough to reach out its arms of mercy into every 
home in America—and into every homeless heart in this 
country. I want a church that will go to the people—through 
other people—not a church that the people will have to come 
to and believe that their religious obligations have been ful¬ 
filled when they go to sleep in the pews! And after we start 
it here in New York it must extend its example and its activi¬ 
ties until it reaches over this broad land. And then who 
knows?—over the whole world/’ 

They were all catching fire as his fervor increased. 

“This church will honor God,” he continued, “and it will 
undertake to do God’s service to humanity. But it will not 
be erected to the glory of God, and its service will not be for 
the worship of God.” He glanced around the table. “I hope 
I’m not shocking anybody,” he said, “but doesn’t all that 
belong to past ages? Does God want us to worship him? 
Does he want us to flatter him to his face? Would it not 
disgust him if he could hear the way some of these preachers 
lay on their praise an inch thick? And beg him to keep us 
from war, famine and pestilence! Not on your life! He 
never does that! We must keep ourselves from war, famine 
and pestilence! Isn’t all that a relic of pagan practice—to 
flatter God so that he will not afflict us! Jesus taught us how 
to pray, and he omitted all that kind of thing. No—this 
church will have itself planted firmly on the earth, it will 
honor God by a constant service to God’s children, and it will 
aim to make a brotherhood of the whole human family, based 
upon the teachings and following the leadership of Jesus 
Christ.” 

“What will the other churches think about it?” asked Jerry 
Trumbull. 

“What will they think? Why, when they see the procession 
go past them, they’re going to get in line—they’re going to 


242 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

wake up—they’re going to throw their theological stuff over- 
board, in order to save the ship.” 

“Sounds good to me,” said Jerry. 

“And Dr. Partridge—here—is to be the leader in this great 
movement. Why, his job is going to be as big as that of 
any captain of industry among you. He’s well enough fixed 
now —he has a fair income, and an apartment, and an auto¬ 
mobile, but we’re going to give him a big salary—as every 
preacher ought to have! Think of the poor wretches in our 
pulpits today, with their threadbare wives, and their children 
lacking the comforts of lifel And the pews full of hypocrites, 
content to dole out starvation wages in return for eternal life! 
It makes me sick!” 

“That’s a new idea to me,” said Trumbull, —“pauperizing 
the preachers who give you eternal life!” 

“No preacher ought to work for less than ten thousand 
dollars a year,” continued Carrington, “and twenty-five or 
fifty thousand dollars in the cities. That would close up a 
hundred thousand churches—but the rest would be corkers! 
Let’s get the little men out of the church, and the big men 
into it! Big salaries, yes. Dr. Partridge is going to get a 
whale of a salary. He won’t keep it—he’ll spend it on the 

poor_I know him! His salary shall be as big as yours, 

Jerry!” 

Now Jerry Trumbull was known to receive a very large 
salary, even among those rich men, but they all seemed to 
approve the novel suggestion. 

“Now, I want Dr. Partridge to say something about this 
enterprise,” said Carrington. 

“It has set me on fire,” said Partridge, while they all turned 
their eyes upon him. “I have tried the old plan—the redemp¬ 
tion and salvation of the human race by faith—and I have 
seen it fail. Through all the ages it has failed. Any plan of 
religion will be inadequate and will fail when it is housed in 


FLAMES OF FAITH 243 

brick walls. Carrington hinted at a great idea when he 
described his new church as being organized like a railroad 
or a steel mill. It must be out-of-doors—out of buildings. He 
means by that that it must dwell in the hearts of the people— 
not in buildings, and not in the control of any man, or any 
group of men. He has well said that churches as we have 
them today ought to be nothing but service stations. He 
means by that, I take it, to give service to the emotional and 
spiritual needs of the people, as well as their physical needs; 
but they must be service stations, and not judgment seats.” 

“That’s good—that looks like business!” commented George 
Illington. 

“Then—if I am to start the movement,” continued Partridge, 
“I shall take Jesus Christ as the pattern of service and of 
ministry, and present his platform—I will not call it his 
gospel—his platform, and the platform of the other great 
prophets who preceded him—as a plea for peace and good will 
and clean living and helpfulness among the people of the 
earth. But that’s all. I don’t believe in conversion as it has 
been taught through all these centuries. I did once—but not 
now. That is where Christianity has met its great failure— 
in trying to convert nations to a form of belief instead of a 
form of life. Jews, Mohammedans and all will accept Jesus 
as a leader as we mean to present his cause. I am glad to be 
called to this task. I feel that we are going to conquer 
America—these sixty millions, and all the rest—and after that 
—Europe, Asia, Africa, the whole earth! Without vision the 
people perish. Carrington has conceived a wonderful vision, 
which I believe will save the world.” 

“And I am going to give him a million dollars to start this 
enterprise,” said Carrington, “but that will only start it. It 
will take a hundred millions to complete it. I told you it was 
to be organized like a railroad or a steel mill. If it is to have 
any symbolism it must be something that will express the 


244 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


idea that it is dedicated to human service—not reaching up 
to Heaven—no, sir!—but reaching down to earth! Heaven 
on earth! Oh, it will be great! Now, don’t some of the rest 
of you want to come in?” 

“In asking your friends for money,” inquired George Car- 
roll, who was a Catholic, “do you mean to construct a great 
church?” 

“No,” replied Carrington. “I would not waste one dollar 
in building an edifice in a country which already has far too 
many churches. Why should we? Plan as we might, no 
architect in the world could design a church which would 
surpass those now in existence. And if it would not surpass 
them, what would be its advertising value? You are startled 
at that word, but it could have no other value if it does not 
advertise us. How could we surpass those glorious English 
cathedrals—or the Italian ones—or that magnificent Gothic 
thing at Chartres—or Saint Patrick’s—your cathedral here 
in New York, Billy,—or Saint John’s—yours, Rumboldt—you 
arch-Episcopalian! No—we don’t want a building—ulti¬ 
mately, when this scheme achieves itself, we shall do away 
with all church structures. At present, they are needed only 
to introduce the work—auditoriums, you know—nothing sacred 
about them—service stations only.” 

“You are carrying me with you,” said Carroll. 

“Good for you, George,” replied Carrington. “Now, I am 
going to place a million dollars to the order of John Partridge 
tomorrow morning. He can draw on it as he needs it. He 
won’t want it all at once—perhaps not for a long time—but it 
will be there when he does need it. Do any of the rest of 
you want to come in?” 

Yes—they did want to come in. You couldn’t keep them 
out! And in five minutes Carrington had raised a huge sum 
of money for a real church—without a building—to save 
America—and John Partridge was going to take charge of it. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


245 


“B 0 y S —this is fine!” exclaimed Carrington, with tears in 
his eyes. “We will begin right away—next Sunday. Well 
hire the Auditorium and start our new church quietly—not 
too much noise at first—a modest beginning—never go duck 
shooting with a brass band, you know! Just start it—and all 
get in behind it—and push. Can you do that, John?” 

“We shall start it next Sunday morning,” replied Partridge, 
with glowing confidence. 


CHAPTER LI 


When Sunday came, the announcement that John Partridge 
was to preach had spread throughout the city, and when the 
doors of the great auditorium were thrown open the people 
thronged in multitudes. There was no question now of draw¬ 
ing the world! Carrington and his generous associates were 
all there, with their families. Alan Carlyle, who had been 
interested with the organization of a staff of practical workers, 
was on hand, ready to take part in the new crusade. The rich 
and the poor were there. The students from the schools and 
universities came in large groups. Many persons of foreign 
aspect, including some from alien races, came also. By eleven 
o’clock the edifice was filled—two thousand seated, others 
standing, and throngs outside who could not find admittance. 

Where these people had come from no man knew; but they 
were surely here. The congregation was much like the 
assembly which stood before the Apostles on the Day of 
Pentecost—“devout men, from every nation under heaven.” 
Yes, indeed, there were in Dr. Partridge’s church devout men 
and women, devout boys and girls—hundreds of them native 
born— hundreds of others come hither from across the seas— 
of every social class—sitting together on this Sunday morning 

_attracted by the fame of a man who had tried to conquer 

Africa and failed! The consecration of his life had drawn 
them to him, and with radiant faces they waited his message. 

Dr. Partridge walked into the pulpit. It was a proud mo¬ 
ment in his life. He took his seat, and surveyed the upturned 
faces before him. Then the great organ opened its pipes, with 
many trumpets and stringed instruments to augment its music, 
and the eloquent and moving introduction to Wagner’s “Meis- 

246 


FLAMES OF FAITH 247 

tersinger” resounded through the hall. When this was finished 
the minister rose and spoke. 

“Some six or seven years ago,” he said, “when I was in 
Africa in missionary service, I met an American who told me 
that whenever I would establish a real church in America he 
would give me a million dollars to start it. I did not know 
then what he meant by a real church. I went on with my work. 
I had many adventures—many vicissitudes. I was back and 
forth, between here and the Dark Continent. Wisdom came 
with the years. One day I went to him and told him that I 
was ready to establish a real church in New York. His word 
was good. He called other friends to share in the blessed 
undertaking, the million dollars has grown into larger millions, 
and today we inaugurate our work. 

“When we began this work of establishing a real church, one 
great question was, what shall we name our church? If we 
called it Methodist, Presbyterian, Baptist, Episcopalian- 
Catholic—Jewish—we would only be wasting our resources in 
a world that is vastly overchurched. Any name carved in 
stone over its door would serve only to repel the multitudes 
whom we have gathered here. If we called it the Church of 
God, we found that that name has already been chosen by a 
sect. If we called it the Church of Jesus Christ, we found 
that that name has already been taken by a denomination. If 
we called it by the generic name—the Christian Church we 
found that even that name has been appropriated by a sect. 
Then we decided upon The Church in the Living Heart. We 
knew that a name like that would stir the compassion of 
humanity—and religion is compassion, and the service which 
comes from compassion. It is a church worthy of America, 
because this church is free—free, as America aims to be free- 
free from dictation, free from tradition, free from dogma— 
a church that believes in honesty, love, mercy and righteous¬ 
ness as the foundation of all character. Oh, my friends—if we 


248 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


can get such a conception of character and service into the 
minds of our children, when we call the children here for 
instruction, we shall wipe out crime by destroying the criminal 
instinct! The Church in the Living Heart is what we are 
creating here today—and it will dedicate the whole of its 
energy and power to human service. 

“It is not a Catholic Church, nor a Protestant church, nor 
a Jewish church, nor a Mohammedan church. We would 
detest to have it called by any of these names. Let me state 
the point clearly. There are some men who do not believe in 
God. The churches say to them, We have no place for you, 
but we welcome them. There are some men who do not believe 
in Jesus as the Deity. The churches say to them, We have 
no place for you; but we welcome them. There are some men 
who do not believe in miracles. The churches say to them, We 
have no place for you; but we welcome them. There are some 
men who do not believe in the binding force of tradition. The 
churches say to them, We have no place for you; but we 
welcome them. We teach no creeds. We have no elders, we 
have no deacons. We exercise no authority, one over the 
other. We have no ordained ministry; but we are building 
up a great organization of devoted men and women—a great 
staff of workers—who will reach down into the depths of 
every human heart and supply its needs. Not only on Sunday, 
but every day in the week, this church and all its mighty 
agencies will be in active operation. You are all ministers 
unto each other, just as I am a minister unto you. No one 
joins the church in the old way. No one makes a declaration 
of faith in the old way—that would ruin our whole enterprise— 
to do that! You come to this building—or any building— 
when you feel like it. And you stay at home when you feel 
like it—to care for the sick, to rest from your work, to go 
into the country for fresh air, to play golf—football—baseball. 
After a time we shall not have any church buildings at all— 


FLAMES OF FAITH 249 

nothing but human hearts. Those shall be our temples—the 
hearts of the people. That will be following the example of 
Jesus—he preached once in a church, and then they drove him 
out, and he never entered their buildings again. 

“Now let me get our idea—my friend's idea—clearly into 
your minds. This new church is not here in this building, nor 
in any building. The church is in your hearts! Do you see 
what a great conception that is?—the church in the living 
heart! That is its seat—the heart. That is its location—the 
heart. That was what Jesus—and the Jewish prophets—tried 
to say to the world, but the world has never understood them. 
All that we can do in a building—like this, or in a cathedral, 
or any other edifice—is to feed the fires that warm the heart. 
And we shall not call you to church every Sunday—because 
Thursday or Tuesday needs your service just as much as Sun¬ 
day. We shall only ask you to assemble now and then—and 
then only to take note of the progress we are making in human 
service. With such a conception of a church in your heart you 
can never succumb to any iniquity." 

“For many years," he said, “I tried to teach the world that 
there was no salvation except in belief. I didn't know what 
my friend meant when he told me to establish a real church. 
Then my convictions about salvation began to change. Many 
things contributed to that change; and one day the United 
States Government published a bulletin through its Census 
Bureau which staggered my brain! This bulletin informed 
the nation that sixty millions of our American population had 
departed from the church—sixty millions without church con¬ 
nections of any kind—sixty millions of unchurched spirituals, 
hungry for a real church. With her consecrated missionaries 
in the heart of Africa, the American government issued this 
inconspicuous bulletin, telling that our own people were turn¬ 
ing away from the ancient faith—more than sixty millions of 
them! Then I knew that what I had been feeling for several 


250 FLAMES OF FAITH 

years was true—the church had gone wrong! The church 
was teaching salvation in a future life through belief. These 
sixty million people revolted from that position; and so did I. 
Suddenly I changed my course. I turned away from that doc¬ 
trine of salvation in a future life through belief, and dedicated 
myself to the teaching of salvation in this life through service.” 

He was stopped by a burst of applause that filled the 
building. 

“You found yourself when you did that!” cried a man at 
the rear. 

“He found us when he did that!” retorted another man from 
the opposite aisle. Then there was a gentle ripple of laughter, 
in which Dr. Partridge joined. 

“Yes,” he said, “I found you when I found myself,” and 
they laughed in that gentle way again—an affectionate laugh 
of concurrence and approbation. 

“I found you—that is very true,” he said. “And I think 
that much the larger part of you were really among those sixty 
millions.” 

“We were—we were,” they shouted back at him from many 
seats. 

“I found that nothing would save this world but service— 
reciprocal service—one life acting upon another, and all upon 
each one. When I had reached that stage in my own growth, 
I went to my friend, who had spoken to me in Africa, and 
said to him, ‘Now I am ready to establish a real church!’ 
He and his associates inaugurated this one, whose watchword 
is Service. Now there is no man or woman, no boy or girl 
within the sound of my voice, who is hungry and athirst after 
righteousness, or who is sick, out of work, discouraged, or 
troubled in any way but knows that here is found that service 
which will restore their peace.” 

“Wonderful! A real religion! A real church, indeed!” 
murmured a thousand voices. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


251 


“You will ask, perhaps,” said Partridge, “How are we to 
be known, and to know each other, as members of this typically 
American church? Well, we have given some thought to that 
—it is not of great importance, yet it is worth thinking about. 
When you are asked, Of what church are you? you will answer, 
The Church in the Living Heart. And when they inquire, 
What are the principles of that church? you will reply, Self- 
control and service. If they ask, Do you pray? you will say, 
Yes, we pray the Lord’s Prayer, because that prayer covers 
all human needs, and all men can utter it because Jesus, 
in teaching it, omitted his own name.” 

Then Dr. Partridge said: 

“I want this choir to sing ‘Lead, Kindly Light.’ We take 
our songs, as we take our other inspirations, from all available 
sources. This hymn was written by a man with the purest 
and sweetest nature that this earth has produced. He was an 
Oxford student who was reaching out for more light. From 
the Episcopal Church he went into the church of Rome— 
became a Catholic. He lived in great obscurity for a time, 
while other men, self-seeking, and going over to Rome as he 
had done, were promoted over his head. But at last his deep 
spiritual nature won the recognition of the Pope, and they 
made him a Cardinal—Cardinal Newman. We will sing 
Cardinal Newman’s song.” 

There were forty men and women in the choir, and they 
sang the beautiful story of that pathetic search after the 
divine light with a spirit which expressed the kindred feelings 
of the congregation. 

“Lead, kindly Light, amid th’ encircling gloom, lead thou 
me on: 

The night is dark and I am far from home, lead thou me on! 
Keep thou my feet! I do not ask to see 
The distant scene; one step enough for me.” 


252 FLAMES OF FAITH 

And then Dr. Partridge said, “I think we should pray.” 

“O God,” he said, “we are grateful that we are thus 
enabled to perform greater works for human needs. And we 
pray that we may continue to inspire each other to carry on 
the work of curing the sick in body and in soul, of giving sight 
of the richness of life to those who cannot see, of striking the 
chains from those who are spiritual captives, and of healing 
the brokenhearted. How much greater in thy sight than all 
other things is this task of healing the brokenhearted! And 
we ask that this work may grow until all the churches in the 
land shall turn from the narrow way of belief into the broad 
highway of service, feeding and uplifting the poor, softening 
the hearts of the rich, doing justice, and loving mercy. Right¬ 
eousness exalteth a nation, O God. Let America be exalted! 
And when righteousness shall have conquered America, let 
America extend her arms in righteousness unto the whole 
world, to conquer the whole world to human service through 
love and righteousness, and unto everlasting peace.” 

He did not say, “For Christ’s sake,” because Jesus did not 
say that. 

Then Dr. Partridge said: 

“The sermon will be a brief one—not over five minutes— 
and we shall today use the Bible.” 

He opened the Bible. 

“I shall take my theme from the seventh chapter of Mark,” 
he said. “When Jesus was performing his mission of service 
among the poor people beside the Sea of Galilee, the doctors 
of divinity at Jerusalem came down to examine his work and 
the nature of his teaching, and when they beheld that some 
of his followers neglected to wash their hands before meals, 
and were a little careless in failing to wash certain cups, and 
pots, and other utensils, they decided—these hollow-eyed, 
bigoted theologians—decided that Jesus was a heretic, and 
that he had corrupted, not particularly the manners, but the 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


253 


religion of his followers. And they accused him, because in 
the mere form of their living his people had not conformed to 
the tradition of the church. But Jesus, in his turn, upbraided 
his critics, reproaching them with having emphasized tradition 
and the outward forms, while forgetting the spirit of true 
religion. Specifically, he told them that they had ceased to 
teach the love of God and the proper upbringing of the family, 
and that they were now testing the religion of the nation by 
the attention given to the washing of cups, pots and brazen 
vessels. Then, passing over these scowling priests, for whom 
he had no respect whatever, he called the multitude to him, 
and described a true religion which all of them could under¬ 
stand without going to church to learn it. He told them that 
there was nothing from without the man, that going into him 
can defile him, but the things which proceed out of the man 
are those that defile him. For from within, out of the heart, 
comes all evil. This was his teaching, and the doctors of 
divinity who listened to him on the fringe of the crowd, deter¬ 
mined to try him as a heretic and execute him. Now that/’ 
continued Dr. Partridge, “is exactly the kind of religious teach¬ 
ing which we need here in America, We can never have any 
real Americanization while our immigrant friends cling to the 
old traditions, the old dogmas, the old forms, which Jesus 
detested—and which have brought Europe into decadence. 
Many of our people have come here with systems of formal 
religions, based—all of them—on form, and ceremony, and 
tradition—appealing to the eye by gorgeous vestments, pic¬ 
tures, statues and amulets of one kind and another, all of 
which existed in all religions in the time of Jesus, and all of 
which he denounced and abhorred. 

“But going to church is not religion—it’s a good thing to do, 
but it is not religion. The church ought to be nothing but a 
rallying ground for people who want to develop the life that 
lies in the heart. Prayers—hymns—sermons—these do not 


254 FLAMES OF FAITH 

constitute religion. The worship of images, and all the out¬ 
ward manifestations of piety—these do not make religion 
almost invariably they pervert it. Belief, faith, dogma, creed, 
doctrine—do not make religion—almost invariably they wither 
and destroy it. Then what is religion? Why, it is that will 
to righteousness in the eternal heart of man that makes 
religion, showing itself in an upright life, in self-control, and 
in service to others; and this is the religion which Jesus 
taught, and because, in the teaching of it, he broke up the 
established church, those cruel theologians crucified him. And 
I verily believe, my friends, that if he were to return to earth 
today, he would, in like manner, break up the established 
church—every established church, in every land!—and that 
the cruel theologians of today would, in like manner, crucify 
him. I am trying to put his religion, as he taught it, in this 
simple way, into the hearts of the people, and if I can get it 
into their hearts, I do not care very much about their brains. 
For the religion of Jesus is life, and not belief.” 


CHAPTER LII 


Partridge’s book, “Humanity and the Church,” had just 
been published, and it created an instant sensation and entered 
upon an enormous sale. It was attacked and defended, praised 
and denounced, with equal vigor and ability. It brought a great 
accession of strength to Dr. Partridge’s church, and many 
persons began to say that the religion which Partridge was 
exploiting, being democratic and individualistic in the highest 
degree, was the only system of religion which was worthy to 
be promoted in America. His followers stoutly maintained 
that he was rapidly Americanizing the religion of the 
Americans. 

Success creates enemies, and it was not long before Dr. 
Partridge’s enemies began to assert themselves. The preach¬ 
ers who had gone with him to Africa were the first to make 
the assault upon him now. One of them preached a sermon 
against his book; then Dr. Gordon, Dr. Ambrose, and the 
others followed. Their denunciations were reported in the 
newspapers. As a result, public interest in his work grew and 
the sale of the book increased. Finally, the former mission¬ 
aries published a communication to Dr. Partridge, challenging 
him to submit himself before a board of Christian ministers 
on a charge of heresy against the Word of God, by reason of 
the book which he had given to the world. 

“In your published book,” they said, in their letter, “you 
have attacked the very foundations of Christian faith. We 
declare ourselves to be defenders of that faith. We stand for 

255 


256 FLAMES OF FAITH 

the fundamentals of religion, that is to say, we hold that the 
world can be saved from eternal perdition only by an implicit 
belief in the virgin birth of Jesus Christ, the actuality of his 
miracles, the divine direction of his ministry, his blood atone¬ 
ment for our sins, his crucifixion, his bodily resurrection from 
the grave, and his physical ascension into Heaven. Beyond 
this, we declare that baptism is necessary for entrance into the 
presence of Almighty God. We are thus fundamentalists, and 
we hold that no man is fit to preach in a Christian pulpit who, 
in the slightest degree, doubts any one of these cardinal prin¬ 
ciples. Moreover, we would exclude from fellowship in the 
church any and all persons who reject, in part or in whole, 
the declaration of faith which we have here stated. We 
therefore call upon you to appear before us at a convenient 
date and make answer as to whether or not you are preaching 
the gospel as we have declared it, and to be judged according 
to the facts as then ascertained and determined.” 

Partridge submitted the challenge to his board of trustees, 
who advised him, one and all, to ignore it. His friends main¬ 
tained that their whole enterprise was entirely independent 
of all other religious organizations, that they owed allegiance 
and obedience to no other power, and that the challenge was 
an act of supreme impudence, no matter what its source. Part¬ 
ridge, however, took the opposite view. While admitting their 
independence, he told his friends that he could not suffer him¬ 
self to keep silent under the charge that he was teaching a 
false religion to the American people. While his enemies had 
no inherent right to try him for heresy, yet if he failed to 
meet them in an open session and defend his opinions, they 
might be able to convict him in the minds of many persons 
whom his own voice could persuade to another view. Finally, 
he said that even if his clerical enemies should find him guilty 
of heresy, he would none the less have had the opportunity 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


257 


of presenting to the world the religious convictions which 
were, he believed, in a general way, the opinions of most of 
the intelligent people of America, and that then public opinion 
would rally to the approval and support of their great enter¬ 
prise. He at length obtained the consent of his associates to 
accept the challenge of the ministers, and in the course of 
time, the place, the hour, and the judges were mutually agreed 
upon. 

Partridge had not been long in America when he began to 
receive letters from Mary Ballantyne, who was now at her 
home in England. Mary wrote that she was greatly occupied 
with her father's estate, and besides had much to do in the 
rural community in which she lived, toward helping in the 
social problems that had grown out of the war. She told him 
of th^. political opinions in England and France, discussed 
some df the recent books, and in particular begged him to tell 
her everything that was connected with his work in America. 
When he sent her a copy of his book, she wrote praising him 
with enthusiasm for his courage in daring to undertake its 
publication; then he informed her that the Evangelical churches 
of New York were going to try him for heresy. 

“They have sent me a letter," he wrote to Mary, “declaring 
themselves to be fundamentalists, and stating the doctrines of 
fundamental belief." After repeating the statement of their 
declarations, he continued: “I mean to accept their challenge, 
and go into a public hearing. Many godly persons will be 
shocked at what I shall say, and yet what I say will not neces¬ 
sarily be a formulation of my own belief. It is my intention to 
speak with the voice of these sixty million Americans who are 
out of the church—to say what they are saying every day in 
regard to the church, in regard to God, and Jesus, and the 
Bible, and after uttering their opinions in a reverent but candid 
way, I mean to show to my accusers, and to the world itself, 


258 FLAMES OF FAITH 

that even if these medieval fundamentals should be swept 
away, there would still be left enough truth concerning God, 
and Jesus, and the Bible to fill the universe. And the result 
of such a course would undoubtedly be to restore the church 
in the hearts of the sixty millions on their own terms. When 
that is done, I hope to convince a decaying church that it must 
modernize itself by dedicating its energies and its resources 
to human service, or be disintegrated as no longer worthy of 
human respect. I know there is peril in this undertaking, but 
I am not afraid, and I send you my dearest love.” 

Upon reading his letter, Mary resolved upon the instant 
that, without apprising him of her purpose, she would go at 
once to New York in order to be near him if adversity should 
threaten him. 


CHAPTER LIII 


When Partridge had said good-bye to Mary Ballantyne in 
France he had thought that they had spoken their eternal 
farewell to each other. The convictions of his life had led him 
to believe that he was bound to Mazie Schilcraft for time and 
eternity, because of the indissoluble tie of their marriage. 
The advice of Arthur Carrington and other friends that he was 
clearly entitled to a divorce “on scriptural grounds,” had made 
but a slight impression upon his mind, and so firmly was he 
bound to the Christian tradition of marriage that he had said 
to himself that even if he were to take this step he still would 
not be free to marry another woman while Mazie lived. He 
had therefore endeavored to root out from his heart every 
passionate and longing thought of Mary, and to think of her 
only as the dearest friend of his life. 

Passionate and longing thoughts, however, refused to flee 
from his soul. The wondrous image of Mary had entered into 
his spirit until she had become a part of the fiber of his exist¬ 
ence. There was no moment of the day when he was not con¬ 
scious of her unseen presence, and in the darkness of the night 
her face was ever beside his own on the pillow. In his hours 
of solitude he found himself in actual converse with her, and 
when he gave breath to the whispered secrets of his love his 
listening ear drank in the fancied endearments of her response. 
Although his letters to her were guarded by the reserved 
language of friendship, his passion had created in his soul 
an empire of love of which he had gladly made her the sover¬ 
eign ruler. 

With the change which had come in his religious beliefs 
259 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


260 

there came a resolve to find the real ground of his obligations 
in the settlement of his domestic life. He was still a young 
man—just thirty-five—and he felt increasingly reluctant to 
let the best years of manhood slip by under a false interpre¬ 
tation of duty. 

He began to study the question of divorce, and found that 
nowhere, in any religion or in any race, was it prohibited 
except in the precepts of Jesus. The Bible itself recognized 
divorce as an established custom among the children of God. 
Indeed, did not the Bible say that Joseph had begun pro¬ 
ceedings for a divorce from Mary, the Mother of Jesus, when 
he thought that she had been unfaithful? Yet the evangelist 
had uttered no word of censure against Joseph. And as to 
the precepts of Jesus on the subject, he found that Jesus had 
clearly acknowledged the legality of divorce, and recognized 
it as a social institution, but, in setting the standard of human 
conduct, had declared it to be an ideal of his own mind that 
self-control should be so potent that remarriage would be both 
unnecessary and unclean. But then, Jesus had expected the 
world to come to an end during his own generation—had de¬ 
clared that it would—and in that belief had inculcated doc¬ 
trines which it would be very hard for the world to follow in 
literal obedience as the centuries came and went. Partridge 
found strength in John Milton’s vehement plea for the right 
of divorce, and in many other ways was able to justify the 
step he was considering. Finally he sent for Carrington, and 
told him the result of his reflections. 

“I am glad, old man—delighted—to know that you are 
going to break away from that fisher-woman,” cried Carring¬ 
ton, when he had heard Partridge’s statement. “There will 
be no trouble about it. We can get the decree for the asking, 
and you will be free to follow your heart’s desire. How are 
you going to begin?” 

“Well, I am going to Radmoor tomorrow morning,” he 


FLAMES OF FAITH 261 

replied, “and ask Mazie to consent to the divorce. After that, 
the lawyers can settle the affair.” 

“Of course,” said Carrington, “your charge will be what 
we call the scriptural reason?” 

“Oh, no,” responded Partridge, “I would never drag a woman 
into court on such a charge. What, Arthur—make her ac¬ 
knowledge that she is living in a guilty association with Jim?— 
before the court officials and the reporters—never!” 

“But we can get forty of her neighbors to prove it.” 

“That would be still worse. Forgive me, Arthur, but you 
men of the law take a cold view of such matters. To me it has 
always been a hideous sin against society when men and 
women who have lived together in the married state turn to 
rend each other before the world in the divorce court—a sin 
against God and man. I will never do that—never!— And the 
law ought not to make it necessary.” 

“But she is guilty, and you know, and the world knows, 
that she is guilty,” persisted Carrington. 

“That does not alter the case,” replied Partridge. “I will 
not speak a word against her reputation to gain my own ends. 
Either she must consent to the divorce on grounds that will 
not give her any pain, or I will abandon the whole project.” 

“But that would be what the law calls collusion, and in that 
case no judge would grant you a decree.” 

“Then I am helpless,” said Partridge. 

“No—not helpless, John,” answered his friend. “If collu¬ 
sion is not charged by either of the parties concerned, the 
judge would scarcely hunt for it in a case where the facts are 
so patent. I agree with you that the law ought not to make 
these accusations necessary. Go and see Mazie, and we can 
plan the case after your interview with her.” 

And so, on the following day, Partridge arrived once more 
at the dilapidated little cottage by the sea. After his second 
knock, Mazie yelled, “Come in!” 


262 FLAMES* OF FAITH 

He opened the door and found a greater degree of dirt and 
squalor than ever before. There was a smell of every kind 
of neglect that struck his nostrils. Mazie was seated in an old 
rocking chair, gazing upon him as he stood in the doorway, 
while the huge figure of Jim was seen on the floor, sound 
asleep. Drunkenness—extreme and constant—was the evident 
cause of this confusion. 

“Who are you, and what do you want?” the woman de¬ 
manded. 

“I am John Partridge,” he answered. 

Mazie looked at him a full half-minute before recognizing 
him. And then, clutching both arms of her chair, she 
exclaimed: 

“Well—what do you want?” 

Her voice was loud, and Jim opened his eyes, rolled over 
to inspect the visitor, and then sat up on the floor. 

“Who is he?” demanded Jim. 

“John Partridge,” replied Mazie; and cried out to Jim: 
“Get up and set down on a chair.” 

Jim did as he was commanded to do, and Partridge spoke. 

“Mazie,” he said, “I have come to ask you if you will 
consent to a divorce from me?” 

“Oh—you want to get married again,” she said. “Is that 
what brings you here?” 

“Yes—that’s it,” he replied. 

“Then he’ll stop sending you the money every month,” 
shouted Jim. “Don’t you let him do it, girl!” 

“You shut up!” cried Mazie. “It’s none of your business.” 

“Isn’t it?” answered Jim. “Well, it’s my business as much 
as yours. He wants to get out of the money.” 

“If he quits with his money,” replied Mazie, “you’ll quit 
spending it on whiskey and dice.” 

“Enough of that, now!” shouted Jim. 

Partridge spoke again. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 263 

“No,” he said, “I shall not stop the allowance, Mazie. That 
will come as usual—as long as you live.” 

“And you want to get married again?” repeated Mazie. 

“Yes,” he said, “that is one reason, and that would permit 
you and Jim to be married.” 

“Will you attend to your own affairs?” cried Jim, in sudden 
rage. “I know—it’s the money! Well, she won’t do it.” 

“He can prove it on me,” said Mazie. “Everybody knows— 
about us.” 

Jim looked up questioningly at Partridge, who was still 
standing. But John spoke a quick response. 

“No, Mazie, I will make no charge of an evil life against 
you. I promise you that I will not speak a word in any public 
way that will cause you pain.” 

“But you can get the witnesses to prove it on me,” she said, 
half-wondering at his consideration. “All the neighbors know 
it. They throw it up to me.” 

“That makes no difference, Mazie,” he replied. “I will not 
speak a word against you, and will not permit anyone else to 
do so.” 

Mazie looked at Jim, then turned her gaze again on Part¬ 
ridge. Whether, in her disordered state, it was the fear of 
losing the money, of incurring Jim’s displeasure, or a deeper 
and sudden and more subtle feeling of jealousy against releas¬ 
ing this lawfully wedded husband of hers to another woman, 
no one could say. The very fact that in her degraded situa¬ 
tion she could hold control over the destiny of this clean, 
handsome and prosperous man may have brought her to her 
resolution. But, in any event, after looking on him for a long 
moment, she said slowly: 

“I will not consent.” 

It was on Partridge’s tongue to say, “I will give you more 
money,” but he caught the words before they were uttered, 


264 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


knowing that that would be nothing but a mercenary bargain 
between Mazie and him. 

“I wish you would agree to it,” he said. “If you will consent, 
we can obtain the decree in a short time.” 

“And if I won’t consent?” 

‘I say again that I will make no charges against you.” 

“Then I will not consent.” 

Feeling that it would be impossible to continue the discus¬ 
sion under the circumstances, Partridge said good-bye, and left 
the house. 


CHAPTER LIV 


On his return from Radmoor, Partridge took his friend Car¬ 
rington for a drive through the park, himself at the wheel, and 
told him of Mazie’s refusal to agree to a divorce. 

“Then we must force the matter,” advised Carrington. 

“No, Arthur,” answered Partridge. “I have told you that I 
will not attack her character. I would consider myself a 
criminal to do that.” 

“Do you mean to say that you would give up Mary Ballan- 
tyne rather than bring this suit?” demanded Carrington. 

“Yes. Even Mary Ballantyne must not be bought at such 
a price. She herself would scorn to have our marriage made 
possible by attacking another woman.” 

“Then—I can do nothing for you, John. But—by Jove, I 
believe you are right in the position you take—and that the law 
ought not to make it necessary to blast one life in order to 
give the other one happiness.” 

“But look there!” suddenly cried Partridge, stopping his car, 
and pointing upward. “There is a woman coming down from 
the sky!” 

This was a sufficiently startling piece of information, and 
Carrington turned his gaze upward. 

“By Jove, how did she ever get there!” he cried. And then, 
answering his own question, he kept on: “She must be more 
than a mile high—she is on a parachute—a mere speck—a 
bird.” 

“She seems to be coming down pretty fast,” said Partridge. 
“The wind is blowing her directly toward us. Let’s wait here, 
and see what happens.” 


265 


266 FLAMES OF FAITH 

He moved his car to the side of the road, and he and Car¬ 
rington got out. There was no one near them and they stood 
still and watched while the parachute and its human figure 
drew nearer to the earth and to them. At last a gust of wind 
drove it forcibly downward, and the girl who was clinging to 
the bar released her hold and fell to the ground at the feet of 
the two men. She lay on her back with her eyes shut. 

“Are you hurt?” asked Partridge. 

Opening her eyes slowly, she looked at them, and then 
answered: 

“No—just dazed a bit.” 

The men took her by the arms and helped her to stand up. 

“I believe I’ve sprained my ankle,” she said, attempting to 
put her foot on the ground. “Gee! I can’t walk! ” 

While holding her they had an opportunity to look at her, 
and they beheld a young woman, apparently not yet twenty, 
with a peculiar and striking beauty, pink cheeks, blue eyes, 
and a glorious aureola of red hair. It was not difficult to see 
that she had a beautiful and symmetric figure, because she was 
dressed in silk tights, with a velvet doublet, a gilded belt, and 
a close-fitting hat ornamented with a pheasant’s tail. 

“What do you want us to do with you?” asked Partridge. 

She looked up at them as they supported her, and tried 
to laugh, then made a wry face, as she felt the pain in the 
ankle. 

“Why—you guys are awfully good to me,” she said. “If 
you can just help me for a minute until my ankle gets better— 
by that time Harry ought to be here.” 

“Who’s Harry?” asked Carrington. 

“He’s just Harry,” she answered. “He follows me in a tin 
lizzie to fetch me and the parachute back to the show up at 
High Bridge. The wind was blowin’ so hard today that I beat 
him to it; but he ought to be here soon.” 

“My house is right across the street,” said Carrington. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 267 

“Suppose we take you there and have your ankle looked after 
—my wife will be glad to aid you.” 

“Say—that’s pretty nice—I’ll tell the world. But what’ll 
Harry do?” 

“We’ll tell this policeman,” said Partridge, as an officer 
came up. He had seen the fall of the parachute and knew 
what had happened. 

Officer we are going to take this girl over to my house— 
I am Arthur Carrington-” 

“Yes—I know who you are, Mr. Carrington.” 

“And when the man, Harry, gets here, will you tell him 
where we have taken her—will you kindly do that, officer?” 

“Yes, Mr. Carrington—that’s all right, sir.” 

They lifted the girl into the car and drove to Carrington’s 
residence, and soon they had her in the drawing room, and 
Barbara Carrington was applying hot cloths to the injured 
ankle. 

I was a mile high when I let go today,” she said, talking 
volubly to her three new friends. “When I dropped—gee!— 
it almost scared me stiff. But the old parachute opened up 
all right. I did come down a bit hard, though.” 

“Do you go up in the balloon every day?” asked Barbara, 
looking up at her fantastical visitor in the midst of her minis¬ 
trations of kindness. 

“Rain or shine, yes,” she answered. “I hope you’ll all come 
and see me do it.” 

“Why,” laughed Barbara, “I think we shall have to.” 

“I’m the grand splash, you know,” she continued. “All the 
rest of the show is acrobats and fakes. But the people come 
to see me. And you should hear them yell when the men cut 
the ropes on my balloon. Then I goes up—up—up; till the 
people look like mice—higher and higher—and me hangin’ on 
to the bar—and I can’t hear no more yells. Then I grit my 
teeth and I let go—down! Gosh! Down, down, down_a 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


268 

mile a minute—till that parachute opens, and I slow up. Then 
it’s back to the show. And all the boss says is, Why don’t you 
go higher?” 

“What is your name?” asked Partridge. 

“I’m the Human Skyscraper,” she answered, with an artless 
pride in the cognomen. Then, smiling upon her questioner, 
“That’s all the name I got.” 

“Are you not afraid to let go?” asked Barbara, putting a 
fresh cloth on the ankle. 

“Yes, I’m always afraid,” she replied. “Gee, but that feels 
good! I know some day the parachute won’t open—then 
watch me hit the earth! You won’t need to pick me up then. 
But it’s £ Go Higher’, just the same.” 

“You spoke of Harry—is he your husband?” ventured Car¬ 
rington. 

She averted her face and forgot her boasting. 

“No,” she answered, after a moment’s pause. “He ought 
to be—but he ain’t. I’m not married.” Then, as she looked 
at the cultured woman who was bathing her foot, she said in 
a very quiet tone: 

“I wish I could live straight!” 

“You can, my child,” answered Barbara, “and we are going 
to help you.” 

Just at that moment the butler brought Harry into the 
room. Harry wore a cap, and kept it on, and he also carried 
a cloak which he threw over the shoulders of the Human 
Skyscraper. 

“Hello, kid!” he cried, paying no attention to the others 
in the room. 

“Hello, kid, yourself,” she answered, saucily. 

“Did you hurt yourself?” 

“Sprained my ankle a bit.” 

“I thought the wind was going to blow you into the sea,” 
he said. 


269 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

“So did I—gee, but I was scared.” 

“Can anybody tell me what time it is?” asked Harry. 

Partridge took out his watch. 

“It’s six-thirty o’clock, exactly,” he said. 

“Time for us to be goin’ home, kid,” said Harry. “How’s 
your foot?” 

“It’s a lot better.” Then, to Barbara, “You’re awfully good 
to me, lady. I’ll never forget you, ma’am. Washin’ me foot 
like that—nobody was ever kind to me like that before.” 

I have bound it up, my child, and I hope it won’t hurt 
you any more,” said Barbara. “I hope you will come and 
see me again—as often as you feel like it.” 

I thank you all. Good-bye,” and she went out with her 
arm around Harry’s neck, Partridge and Carrington helping 
her to the car in which her companion carried her away. 

When they had disappeared, Partridge stepped into his own 
car. 

“Put your car away, John,” said Carrington, “and come 
back here to dinner, won’t you?” 

“Sure it will be convenient?” 

“Yes—if you don’t mind our running off to the opera after¬ 
wards—or will you go with us?” 

“No, I won’t go there, but I’ll come to dinner.* 

“All right, John. Barbara will be delighted, and we can 
talk of the heresy trial for tomorrow.” 

“But—I say, Arthur—that fellow, Harry, has stolen my 
Watch!” 

“The damned scoundrel! Will you report it to the police?” 

“No—that girl will bring it back. See if she doesn’t.” 


CHAPTER LV 


“Well, how do you feel about tomorrow’s task?” asked 
Carrington, when they had sat down to their cigars after 
dinner. 

“I think I am ready for it,” answered Partridge. “The 
principal accusation of these men seems to be that I am dis¬ 
turbing the system.” 

“And why not?” asked Carrington. 

“Well, they are right, from their standpoint. All the pas¬ 
sion and anguish of the human race have come from disturbing 
the system—and all progress has flowed from the same cause. 
Jesus was crucified for attacking the system—yet he put love 
in the place of force. Luther and Cromwell—Washington and 
Lincoln—all attacked the system-” 

“And,” said Carrington, “they immeasurably advanced 
human welfare.” 

“Yes,” answered Partridge. Then, smiling in gentle irony, 
he continued: “And there was Galileo—oh, what a disturber 
of the system was he! The system had located Heaven right 
overhead, with a myriad of stars lighting the way to the 
favored children of the church. Under our feet was Hell. 
Galileo swept his telescope across that haunted sky—and lo— 
Heaven vanished. In its place came a universe. This earth 
—till then the center of creation—became a mere speck—indis¬ 
tinguishable amidst the splendors of solar systems extending 
their power among the infinite millions of greater worlds.” 

Carrington laughed heartily. 

“A disturber like that,” said he, “deserved all he got! 
Won’t you stay here all night?” 

270 


271 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

“No, thank you, Arthur, but when you and Barbara go I 
should like to remain for a half-hour or so to look at some of 
your rare books. I know you have Lugori on the law of the 
Catholic Church, and some other things I may need for 
tomorrow.” 

“I hope you can get a good sleep tonight!” 

I think I can sleep. But in one of his troubled moments, 
Hamlet, you know, said ‘Look you, I’ll go pray.’ And that 
is what I shall do.” 

4 ‘You still believe in prayer?” 

“Yes—I must not lose that. In reading of Luther the other 
day, I was astonished at the statement that he gave himself 
up to prayer for five hours every day.” 

“How could he take five hours out of his work?” 

“He did not take it out of his work. Prayer was itself his 
work. He believed that we make ourselves what we prav 
to be.” J 

“That’s a good idea,” said Carrington. 

“Cromwell prayed,” continued Partridge,—“inspired his 
army to pray—incessantly—until he made his Ironsides the 
most terrible machine that Europe had ever known.” 

“A wonderful man,” said Carrington. 

. “ And Lincoln declared,” added the preacher, “that many 
times he fell upon his knees, forced by the overwhelming con¬ 
viction that he had nowhere else to go.” 

“I never knew that of Lincoln,” said Carrington. “But 
Washington prayed at Valley Forge.” 

“And if we can ever get the whole world to pray for peace_” 

continued Partridge. 

“—there will never be another war,” said Carrington, end¬ 
ing the sentence for him. 

Then Carrington said: 

“John, I look upon this heresy trial without fear. Public 
opinion is, I believe, overwhelmingly on your side. The great 


272 FLAMES OF FAITH 

success of our undertaking in the church speaks for itself. 
These bigoted men have forced this inquisition upon you. We 
are all concerned in it. I shall be with you at the trial. The 
discussion will clear the air, and you and our work will gain 
an immeasurable advantage. That is my firm belief. 

“That’s very good of you, Arthur,” he replied. “Your pres¬ 
ence will be a source of strength.” 

The two friends clasped hands warmly, and Barbara re¬ 
turned to the room, ready to go out. 

“How do I look, Arthur?” asked Barbara. 

“Superb,” he said, “pretty as a picture.” 

“Thanks, Arthur.” And then: “Won’t you go with us to 
the opera, John?” 

“No—a thousand thanks, Barbara,” he said, “but I have 
too much work to do tonight, and Arthur has told me I may 
use his books for some final notes.” 

“It’s a most curious coincidence,” said Carrington, “that 
all the men who are so vindictively pressing this heresy charge 
against you are the very group of missionaries who accom¬ 
panied you to Africa when I went with you there some seven 
years ago. You have risen far above their level and are doing 
a magnificent work for your country; but in this book you have 
given them cause to attack you.” 

“I hope it will not bring you into any great distress,” sighed 
Barbara. 

“I am backing you in everything that you are doing,” 
replied Carrington. “And I’m going to stick to you through 
thick and thin.” 

“Good-bye, then!” and his friends left him to range among 
the volumes in the last preparation for his trial. 


CHAPTER LVI 


Partridge had completed his notes on the morrow and was 
just ready to go to the trial, when there was a knock at his 
study door. 

“Come in,” he cried, and Mary Ballantyne entered the room. 

He stood transfixed for a moment, while she approached 
and took his hand. 

“Mary!” he cried, pressing her hands. “How did you get 
here? When did you come?” He was almost shouting in his 
gladness. 

She smiled at him in the old way, but without the deep joy 
of their other days. He gazed down into her eyes, eager to 
clasp her in his arms, but compelled as always to restrain his 
ardor. 

“Oh, Mary!” he exclaimed—and the words came like a cry 
out of his heart. 

“John—have I startled you?” 

“When did you come to America?” 

“I arrived yesterday.” 

“Without telling me that you were coming?” 

“Without telling you.” 

“But what brought you?” 

“A boat!” And she laughed. 

“Yes—but what reason?” 

“I came on the first steamer after reading your letter that 
you were to go through a heresy trial.” 

“Bless you, Mary. But why—” 

“I felt that I must be near when danger menaced you.” 

273 


274 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


“Near me, Mary?” 

“Yes. You know you were always beside me when peril 
threatened.” 

“And that is why?” 

“That is why.” 

“You will come with me to the trial?” 

“If it will not disconcert you—yes.” 

“It will not. Oh, dearest, it will not. Your presence will 
strengthen me—it will give me a greater store of courage.” 
“Then I shall be with you until the ordeal is finished.” 
“But I may lose.” 

“What does that matter?” 

“These men are heartless when their little systems are 
assailed.” 

“You will assail their systems?” 

“Yes, I must—in defending my own.” 

“Whether you win or lose, it makes no difference.” 

“No difference to you?” 

“No difference to me. I only desire to be near you.” 

“You are always near me.” 

“Yes—I am always near you—in your arms—night and day, 
sleeping or waking it is always the same.” 

“Mary—you are very beautiful. I don’t mean physically 
beautiful.” 

“Come, sir!” 

“That goes without saying.” 

“That’s better!” 

“But your spirit is the most beautiful thing in this world.” 
“No, John. The most beautiful thing in this world is your 
love.” 

“Let us go, Mary.” 


CHAPTER LVII 


Dr. Partridge’s trial for heresy took place in a church 
which was the noblest specimen of Gothic architecture in 
America. As the people entered the edifice they saw at the 
back a great organ, and the members of the choir already 
seated in the loft beside the gilded pipes. In front of the 
organ was the pulpit, with desk and lectern, a large Holy 
Bible, and several chairs. At the side of the pulpit were doors 
into the study rooms, to be used today by the Moderators in 
charge of the inquisition. The windows presented biblical 
scenes in the highest art of stained glass. On the floor in 
front of the pulpit was a cleared space where a table and 
chairs had been placed for the Moderators. On this table 
there were hymn-books, Bibles, a great many theological text¬ 
books, and five or six copies of Dr. Partridge’s book, Humanity 
and the Church. Near the Moderators’ table was another one 
at which the newspaper reporters were already seated, in 
absorbed expectancy as the chroniclers of a notable episode in 
the religious life of the nation. 

The pews were filled with eager spectators, and hundreds 
of people stood outside seeking entrance. Among those present 
were members of every congregation in the city, and every 
faith and every nation was represented. More than three 
hundred ministers and priests were there. It was a fair guess 
that one-third of the huge assembly was composed of those 
who sympathized with the prosecution of Dr. Partridge, 
while the other two-thirds comprised his loyal friends and 
followers, or perhaps, in part, was made up of curious persons 

275 


276 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


who had come merely for the entertainment of the trial. When 
the great hearing had begun, these auditors, straining at every 
point, manifested their feelings in accordance with their re¬ 
ligious or racial predilections, and before long it required both 
firmness and tact on the part of the Moderators to preserve 
a proper decorum among the people while the problems so 
close to their souls were debated by the intellectual giants who 
participated in the trial. 

The organist played Handel’s “Largo” and then, very softly, 
“Abide With Me.” Some of the people bowed their heads as 
in prayer, while others sat upright merely as lookers on. The 
reporters took no part in the devotions, but made notes of all 
that occurred. Soon the door beside the pulpit opened and 
the clergymen who had issued the ecclesiastical challenge came 
in—Bishop Moberly, the Episcopalian; Dr. Stanwood, the 
Presbyterian; Dr. Gordon, the Methodist; and Dr. Ambrose, 
the Disciple. Behind them all came Father O’Hara, the Catho¬ 
lic priest, holding himself entirely aloof from the devotional 
exercises. When these were seated, the Moderators came in— 
Dr. Robinson, presiding, with Dr. Shelton and Dr. Howard to 
assist him—all three chosen from evangelical churches, and 
celebrated alike for the orthodoxy of their faith and the elo¬ 
quence of their preaching. All three wore black silk gowns 
striped with red, denoting doctors of divinity. The Modera¬ 
tors sat down at the table, facing the congregation. When 
they had done this, Dr. Partridge came down the aisle from the 
rear of the church, with the Jewish Rabbi, Dr. Kaufman, 
beside him. He found a seat for the Rabbi, and then sat down 
near him, facing the Moderators. 

As Partridge swept his eyes over the multitude, it comforted 
him greatly in his critical situation to recognize the loyal faces 
of hundreds of his friends. Among them was a group that 
filled one of the pews and comprised the Carringtons—Arthur 
and Barbara; and Alan Carlyle; and seated between Carring- 


FLAMES OF FAITH 277 

ton and his wife, to whom he had presented her a few min¬ 
utes ago, was Mary Ballantyne. 

Dr. Robinson now stood up and addressed the people. 

“This is the house of God,” he said. “It is proper that 
these solemn proceedings should be opened with devotional 
exercises. The choir will now sing the hymn that has been 
chosen for this occasion.” 

The Moderator sat down and the organist began to play 
that great hymn by Reginald Heber, “The Son of God goes 
forth*to war, Who follows in his train?” 

Dr. Robinson spoke again. “I will call upon the Reverend 
Doctor Stanwood,” said he, “to read the Scripture lesson.” 

Dr. Stanwood ascended into the pulpit, opened the Bible, 
and read from the Twenty-third Psalm, as follows: 

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. 

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me 
beside the still waters. 

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of right¬ 
eousness for his name’s sake. 

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of 
death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me: thy rod and 
thy staff they comfort me. 

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine 
enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth 
over. 

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of 
my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. 

At the conclusion of the Scripture reading, Dr. Stanwood 
came down and resumed his seat with the others. 

The Moderator arose again. “Dr. Ambrose,” said he, “will 
you lead us in the Lord’s Prayer?” 

Dr. Ambrose stood up and said, “Let us pray.” Most of 
those present bowed their heads, and the beautiful prayer 
rose in unison from the people. 


278 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

“Our Father which art in Heaven. Hallowed be thy name. 
Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth, as it is in 
Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us 
our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. 
And lead us not into temptation. But deliver us from evil. 
For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory for 
ever and ever. Amen.” 

Then Dr. Robinson, praying alone, uttered this petition with 
deep and pathetic emotion: 

“Our Heavenly Father. A brother of ours—a son of thine 
-—is solemnly charged with the perversion of divine truth as 
it is revealed to us in the Holy Bible. We have been chosen 
to try his cause. We beseech thee, O gracious God, that thou 
wilt guide our task with thy Holy Spirit, and shape our judg¬ 
ment according to thy divine wisdom, so that justice may be 
done, that truth may be vindicated, and that thy blessed 
kingdom may be enlarged upon the earth. And all this, our 
dear Father, we ask in the name of Jesus Christ, our Saviour. 
Amen.” 

When he sat down the choir sang Joseph Addison’s superb 
hymn, set to Haydn’s music from the Creation, with a spirit 
which stirred the congregation to its depths: 

“The spacious firmament on high, 

With all the blue ethereal sky, 

And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 

Their great Original proclaim. 

The unwearied sun, from day to day, 

Does his Creator’s power display, 

And publishes to every land, 

The work of an Almighty hand.” 

Dr. Robinson now arose, and the firm setting of his lips 
indicated that the business of the day was to be taken up. A 
deep silence fell upon the multitude as he tapped twice with 


FLAMES OF FAITH 279 

his gavel, calling the session to order. He spoke with great 
gravity, as follows: 

The Reverend Doctor John William Partridge, a minister 
of the Christian religion, duly ordained in accordance with the 
canons of the church, has been charged with uttering heresy 
against the truth of God’s Holy Word, as revealed in the 
Sacred Scriptures, to wit, in the publication and circulation 
of a book, entitled, Humanity and the Church, of which he 
acknowledges himself to be the sole author.” As the Modera¬ 
tor quoted the title of the book, he picked up a copy of it 
and held it aloft that all might see it. “Is Dr. Partridge 
present?” 

Dr. Partridge stood up. “I am here, sir,” he said. 

And do you consent,” asked the Moderator, “that your 
cause shall be tried before ourselves as Moderators, and promise 
that you will abide by our findings?” 

“I do,” he answered, and sat down. 

“Where are the witnesses?” asked the Moderator. 

Dr. Stanwood stood up and spoke. 

“Mr. President,” said he, “it is with unfeigned sorrow that 
I declare myself one of the authors of the charge of heresy 
against our dearly beloved, but deluded and deceived brother, 
the Reverend Doctor John William Partridge, in the publica¬ 
tion of this most pernicious book”—he took it up from the 
table—“Humanity and the Church. I am joined in the mak¬ 
ing of this charge by some of the ministers of other churches, 
who are distinguished alike for their piety and their scholar¬ 
ship, and they have volunteered to come here both as prose¬ 
cutors and as witnesses. They are all present.” He thereupon 
pronounced their names and the churches to which they be¬ 
longed, omitting mention of the Jewish Rabbi. “I come 
forward in this matter with all the more reluctance because I 
have known Dr. Partridge almost from his youth. I was with 
him when he went on his mission to Africa, as other gentle- 


280 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

men were who are with me today, and we all wish that instead 
of prosecuting Dr. Partridge for notorious heresy it might be 
our blessed privilege to testify to the faith which inspired him 
in his younger days to accomplish great works for God. But 
we are here with a stern purpose, and God helping us, we shall 
not shrink from our bounden duty.” 

“Dr. Partridge,” asked the Moderator, “do you make objec¬ 
tion to any of these witnesses?” 

“No, sir,” answered Dr. Partridge, standing up. “I make 
no objection.” 

“Have you any witnesses on your side?” demanded the 
Moderator. 

“I think I myself am the only witness on my side,” replied 
Dr. Partridge, “but I would ask the privilege of the floor for 
my friend, Dr. Kaufman.” 

“What—the Jewish Rabbi?” demanded Dr. Stanwood, and 
he looked toward the other ministers for their opinion. 

“This is most unusual,” said the Moderator, and he, too, 
looked toward the other side. “Is there objection?” he asked. 

After a momentary pause Dr. Stanwood spoke. 

“It is, as you say, most unusual,” he said, “but we on our 
side will offer no objection.” 

“Who shall speak first?” asked the Moderator. 

“I ask that Dr. O’Hara speak,” said Dr. Stanwood. 

“Sir,” said the priest, rising and speaking with much earnest¬ 
ness, “I thank you for your courtesy. My appearance, in a 
Protestant church, and on such an occasion, is likewise most 
unusual. A Catholic can appear at a Protestant meeting only 
in extraordinary circumstances. The Catholic church looks 
upon America as a missionary country. She has never abated 
one jot of her claim to universal jurisdiction over the minds 
and consciences of all baptized people, nor of her exclusive 
right to unfold divine truth to all other people. My partici- 


FLAMES OF FAITH 281 

pation in the proceedings here, then, cannot now be mis¬ 
understood.” 

This speech plainly angered some of his auditors and pro¬ 
voked them to an acrimonious retort. 

“And what will become of free America when your plan 
is achieved?” demanded Bishop Moberly. 

“A foreign church and a foreign priesthood!” cried Dr. 
Ambrose, bitterly. “It can never be American while it is 
Roman!” 

“Was not this country established as a protest against those 
two evils which brought so much woe to the old world- 
feudalism in the church, and feudalism in the state?” asked 
Dr. Gordon. “And yet you would force the Pope on us!” 

This was the first occasion for the exercise of applause in 
the pews, which brought a rap from the Moderator's gavel. 

“And does not Edmund Burke truthfully say,” interjected 
Dr. Stanwood, “in that great speech On Conciliation, that the 
religion of America is the Protestantism of the Protestants 
and the dissidence of dissent!” 

“But how if the Catholic Church is the sole repository of 
divine truth?” demanded the priest, smiling and confident. 

There followed applause which showed that a Catholic 
section was present in the church. 

“Divine truth should be revealed in the discussion which 
must occur here today,” replied Dr. Stanwood. “We, on our 
side, are going to oppose Protestantism against any attempt 
to make America a Roman Catholic Republic. I am free to 
admit, Mr. Moderator,” he continued, turning toward the 
presiding officer, as if he feared a call to order, “that the 
Catholic church contains innumerable self-denying priests, 
saintly sisters, and godly men and women. But it was my 
privilege to graduate from Yale, and that college was founded 
more than two centuries ago upon the declaration that it was 
the glorious public design of our blessed fathers, in their re- 


282 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


move from Europe, to propagate in this wilderness the re¬ 
formed Protestant religion. And that is the only way that we 
can save the Republic of Washington and Hamilton, of Jef¬ 
ferson, Franklin, and Marshall!” 

A tremendous burst of applause greeted this declaration. 

“Do you question the loyalty of Catholic Americans?” 
cried the priest, hotly. 

Dr. Partridge sprang to his feet. 

“No—never!” he cried. “Never—after their magnificent 
service in the war.” 

There was further applause from the pews, and he took his 
seat. 

But the Moderator put an end to a quarrel at the very 
outset by rapping with his gavel. 

“Gentlemen!” he cried, rising to his feet, “this discussion 
is wholly foreign to the subject which has brought us to¬ 
gether. I beg you all to speak to the question.” 

“This book, then,” said Father O’Hara, taking it up, “has 
attracted extraordinary attention, is having an enormous cir¬ 
culation, and is exercising an overwhelming influence upon the 
masses of the people. I believe it to be an insidious and 
dangerous attack upon the very foundations of our Christian 
faith—not only Protestant, but Catholic as well. I say so 
much in justification of my conduct in coming here, by invi¬ 
tation of the Reverend Doctor Stanwood, to act as a witness 
in this hearing.” He opened the book. “Here, sir,” he con¬ 
tinued, “is Dr. Partridge’s book, Humanity and the Church. 
The author commences with this: 

‘The world must grow into a deeper spirituality as it learns 
to differentiate between the legendary Jesus and the historic 
Jesus.’ 

And then, as I understand his reasoning, he deftly rejects all 
that is vital in our faith.” 


FLAMES OF FAITH 283 

Dr. Partridge stood up now, and continued to keep his feet 
throughout the proceedings, carrying himself always with mod¬ 
eration and courtesy. As the other ministers spoke, they too, 
stood up and kept their feet while the great investigation 
went on, all of them, either actively or passively, taking a 
spirited part in it. 

“And my claim is that I have saved all that is vital/’ was 
Dr. Partridge’s reply. 

“And here,” said the priest, “he says: 

‘The Bible, being the record of what men have thought and 
conceived about God, must naturally contain errors, due to 
the human limitations of the authors.’ 

That, to my mind, is a denial of the inspiration of the Bible.” 

“Do I not say,” asked Dr. Partridge, “that the men who 
wrote it were inspired by their beliefs?” 

“That means nothing,” replied Father O’Hara. 

“Will you let me have that book?” asked Dr. Stanwood, 
taking it from the hand of the priest. Then, turning the 
pages rapidly, as if he knew every word it contained, he quoted 
from it: 

“ ‘To the realm of legend both the conscience and the intel¬ 
lect are now ascribing many of those narratives which were 
once esteemed a part of the divine revelation. Take the Loaves 
and Fishes. They had only meager food with them that day, 
but they thought not of hunger because he gave them the 
food of. the spirit,, which was abundant to their needs. The 
mechanical invention of multiplying the loaves and fishes 
spoils the beauty and the truth of the episode.’ 

And in this way he specifies,” continued Dr. Stanwood, tap¬ 
ping the book with rising anger, “he specifies keenly, adroitly, 
and with much cleverness and learning against the whole body 
of the miraculous episodes.” 

“I specify against them as miracles, sir,” replied Dr. Par- 


284 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


tridge, “but I believe that most of them occurred under the 
laws of nature. The record is in error—that’s all.” 

“The record is in error!” repeated Father O’Hara, with 
horror. “Is not that enough to prove the accusation of 
heresy?” 

Bishop Moberly took up a copy of the book. “By your 
leave,” he said, and read this passage: 

“ ‘For two thousand years the church has followed Paul, in¬ 
stead of Jesus, and has built up its creeds from Paul’s meta¬ 
physical writings, which have taken the place of the gospel 
of Jesus.’ 

I maintain,” continued Bishop Moberly, “that that is an attack 
on the divinely constituted church.” 

“You don’t claim that creeds are divine, do you?” de¬ 
manded Partridge. “Who made them divine?” 

There was no answer to the question. 

“Let me see that book, won’t you?” said Dr. Gordon. And 
he read from it: 

“ ‘Our religion obtains its greatest strength, not from its di¬ 
vinity, but from its humanity.’ 

Now I ask you, Mr. Moderator, if this passage does not seek 
to destroy the very cornerstone of our faith?” 

The Moderator here interrupted the discussion. “Gentle¬ 
men,” he said, “the presentation of the evidence is not taking 
the usual lines. Dr. Partridge has the right to make objection 
to this method, if he so desires.” 

“I have no objection to the method they are choosing, sir,” 
replied Dr. Partridge. 

“If there is no objection from either side, then,” said Dr. 
Robinson, “the Moderators will make no ruling. This free 
discussion will probably bring out the merits of the case as 
intelligently as direct testimony would do.” And he resumed 
the chair. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 285 

“On one question I would rest this case,” said Dr. Stan- 
wood, raising his finger solemnly. “Was not Jesus God him¬ 
self walking on the earth?” 

An unusual stillness fell upon the great audience as this 
fundamental question was uttered. The friends of the accused 
minister, who were present in the church by hundreds, seemed 
deeply anxious lest their leader should meet his undoing. 
Those who were opposed to him felt that a trap had been set 
for the bold teacher from which he could not possibly escape. 
The reporters, quick to recognize every changing phase of the 
great drama, held their pencils in eager readiness to write the 
fateful answer. The correspondent of the Associated Press 
whispered to his colleagues: 

That question is a poser. If he say No, he is convicted. 
If he says Yes, he kills his book.” 

The other newspaper men nodded acquiescence, and 
listened. 

But Dr. Partridge was too skilful in dialectics to suffer 
defeat upon such an interrogation. He knew full well how to 
parry the adroit thrust of his pitiless adversary. 

“If he was, or if he was not,” replied Dr. Partridge, “how 
would that affect his message to the world?” 

“I scarcely understand you,” said Dr. Stanwood. 

“I mean,” continued Dr. Partridge, “that we all accept 
Jesus only because his message was good. If his message 
had been bad, his divinity would not have saved it.” 

“Tut, tut, tut!” cried Dr. Gordon, indignantly. “You are a 
Unitarian!” 

The Moderator instantly tapped his gavel. “Gentlemen,” 
he said, “we must avoid acrimonious or personal remarks.” 

“Yes,” said Dr. Partridge, “I am a Unitarian, just as I am 
a Catholic, an Episcopalian, a Presbyterian, a Methodist, a 
Disciple, a Christian Scientist, a Jew. I am all these within 
bounds.” 


286 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


“But in what way do you separate his message from his 
divinity?” pursued Dr. Stanwood. 

“This is my view,” answered the minister. “There are five 
great divisions in the life of Jesus. According to the Bible 
these appear to us in this order. His Virgin birth, his mir¬ 
acles, his message, his crucifixion, his resurrection. We could, 
if necessary, retain his message and lose all the other four 
points, and still preserve a useful church, but if we should 
lose his message we could not maintain a church which the 
world would accept upon the other four points.” 

“I hope the Moderators have noted the significance of that 
answer,” said Dr. Stanwood, turning toward the presiding of¬ 
ficer. “The things which he offers to reject are the funda¬ 
mentals of Christianity.” 

“The official stenographer has taken the words as spoken,” 
replied the Moderator. 

“Give me that book, please,” said Dr. Ambrose. “And here 
he says: 

‘With all my soul I believe in the actual, spiritual resurrec¬ 
tion. But with our earthy bodies—no!’ ” 

“Don’t our bodies rise?” 

“Our frail bodies—broken, consumed, destroyed,” com¬ 
mented Dr. Partridge. “Why should they?” 

Dr. Ambrose threw the book on the table. “The Lord de¬ 
liver us from such higher criticism!” he exclaimed, in a tone 
which brought a warning from the Moderator’s gavel. 

Father O’Hara spoke again. 

“Dr. Partridge has much to say concerning contradictions 
which destroy the credibility of the gospel narrative,” said 
he. “For example, he speaks of the contradiction concern¬ 
ing the flight into Egypt. I would like to ask him to explain 
his meaning as to that beautiful episode.” 

“Let me remind these gentlemen first,” replied Dr. Par- 


FLAMES OF FAITH 287 

tridg e , “that when Paul spoke of all scripture being given by 
inspiration he must have referred exclusively to the Old Tes¬ 
tament scriptures, because there was not one word of the New 
Testament in existence at that time. On more than one oc- 
casmn he expressly declared that he himself spoke not by in- 
spiration.” 

“Then how do we get our inspiration?” inquired Dr. Stan- 
wood. 

In this way,” he answered. “One man writes a piece of 
religious literature and the men who come after him declare 
that it has been given by divine inspiration. For example, 
every bull and declaration that has come from Father O’Hara’s 
church during the last nineteen hundred years is directly given 
to the faithful of that church by God Almighty through the 
Pope, his vicar on. earth. Shall we accept such an inspiration 
here today? That Old Testament writer who declared that 
the women and children of the surrounding countries had been 
put to the sword, and that God had commanded the slaughter 
—was he an inspired prophet or was he merely a fanatical 
liar?” 

“But these contradictions?” pressed Father O’Hara. 

“Now, as to the matter of contradictions,” continued Dr. 
Partridge, “as they occur in both the Old and the New Testa¬ 
ments, they are almost innumerable.” He picked up a book 
which had caught his eye. “Here,” he said, “is a work which 
is called A Harmony of the Four Gospels. You all know it. 
It is used in every theological school in America. What does 
it show us? Listen: The second chapter of Matthew is a 
fundamental contradiction of the second chapter of Luke. In 
Matthew we have the story of the flight of Joseph and Mary 
with the child Jesus into Egypt because of the edict attributed 
^ Herod the Great that all children under two years 
old should be slain; and there they abode until the death of 
Herod. In Luke the edict of Herod is not mentioned, neither, 


288 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


I may add, does profane history mention it, although profane 
history gives us a complete account of Herod’s reign. Luke 
does not mention it, but, on the contrary, Joseph and Mary 
took the child Jesus straight to Jerusalem, where Herod held 
his seat, and there they went through all the public cere¬ 
monies with the child which were required by the customs 
of the time, afterwards returning to Nazareth, with Herod 
still alive and conscious of everything that was occurring in his 
dominions.” 

Dr. Partridge was finding no joy in making these disclosures. 
The tears sometimes came into his eyes, and he pursued his 
testimony with every sign of reluctant emotion. 

“These contradictions extend themselves into the miracles,” 
he continued, “as shown by this Harmony. Why do you not 
indict the author of the Harmony? Most emphatically of all 
do we find them irreconcilably prominent in the four accounts 
of the Resurrection, where absolute agreement is imperative. 
Read them in Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, as set forth 
in parallel columns in this Harmony, and you will behold a 
destructive conflict. Indeed, in all that comes after the Cruci¬ 
fixion the narrative is episodic, fugitive, piecemeal, conflicting, 
lacking sober conviction, and fatally contradictory.” 

Dr. Stanwood turned quickly upon the Moderator. 

“Need this trial go any further?” he demanded. 

“Yes,” responded the Moderator. “It must go to the end.” 

“The Ascension—do you include that wonderful end of our 
Lord’s earthly career in your list of things lacking convic¬ 
tion?” asked Father O’Hara. 

“No—but let us examine it. They say that he ascended 
into Heaven, and sat upon the right hand of God,” replied 
Dr. Partridge, “but this is the statement of the chronicler. 
No one saw it; and they had not explored the sky as we have 
done. They never knew that the central star in Orion is 
equal to twenty-seven millions of our suns. They believed 


FLAMES OF FAITH 289 

that all the mighty worlds above us were made to light the 
earth. The Book of Genesis and the Book of Revelation 
declare it so. Yet our airplanes have gone higher than th£ 
chronicler could have done, and found no Heaven; our tele¬ 
scopes have pierced the blue firmament for millions of miles, 
and found no Heaven. Here again materialism spoils a spirit¬ 
ual fact of undoubted authenticity. I say thus much not only 
to answer Father O’Hara’s interrogation, but also to justify 
the statement in my book that the scriptural writers recorded 
their narratives as they understood them, but as fallible men.” 

Father O’Hara would not accept this proof. 

“If such contradictions are apparent,” he said, “our faith 
should be strong enough to submerge them.” 

“I have tried to avoid the specification of these matters in 
my book, from the very considerations which Father O’Hara 
has uttered,” said Dr. Partridge, “but when the learned doctors 
of the church challenge me so explicitly in my trial here, they 
force me to answer them with direct examples.” 

“That is a good phrase—direct examples,” repeated Father 
O’Hara. “I have one more direct example which I would like 
to propound to the reverend gentleman. Dr. Partridge speaks 
of the virgin birth of our Lord Jesus as one of the incredibles 
of the Bible. What, may I ask, does he mean by that?” 

“I mean this,” replied Dr. Partridge, promptly. “While 
Joseph was dignifying labor in his little carpenter shop there 
in Nazareth, Jesus was chosen to perform the greatest mission 
that was ever launched on this earth. And what was it? He 
found the world going to seed from self-righteousness. Men 
were standing on the street corners and rolling their eyes in 
arrogant holiness, and thanking God they were not like other 
men. And God put his spirit and soul into the spirit and soul 
of Jesus—his spirit was begotten by the spirit of God, he 
became the son of God and the Savior of men. Oh, don’t 
let us ever even pretend to put it in that other way—think 


290 


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of it!—another man’s wife, without his knowledge or consent! 
—that revolting way which drove the brokenhearted young 
Jewish bridegroom into the divorce court! That is merely 
a gross and repugnant literal reading of a beautiful spiritual 
fact, and was originally chosen by profane minds in order to 
give this honorable wife and mother a spectacular position as 
the wife of God and the Queen of Heaven. How much more 
beautiful—how much more dignified and honorable it is to 
give to Mary her rightful position as the wife of Joseph and 
the mother of his children. When we take it the other way ; 
it is at once a slur on the character of God and a stigma on the 
name of Jesus.” 

“I protest against this!” cried Father O’Hara. 

“Let him speak on,” said the Moderator. 

“Let us be reasonable men on this question of the birth of 
Jesus,” he continued. “We have two accounts of his gene¬ 
alogy—one in Matthew, tracing back to Abraham, the other 
in Luke, going back to Adam. Here again they contradict 
each other in the details, but both records contain the indis¬ 
putable declaration that it is Joseph, and not Mary, whose 
descent is thus published.” 

“What’s this—what’s this?” cried Dr. Stanwood. “They 
never called our attention to that at the theological seminary!” 

“No—and there are a lot of other things that they never tell 
you there,” answered Partridge. “But look at the Bible,” and 
he opened it. “Here in the first chapter of Matthew, and the 
first verse, we are told that this is the generation of Jesus 
Christ, the son of David, the son of Abraham. And from 
Abraham is given the line of direct descent to Joseph, and it 
is through Joseph, and not through Mary, that Jesus traces 
back to Abraham. In the third chapter of Luke, we have the 
same story—Jesus, tracing back through Joseph—not through 
Mary—to Adam. Jesus never spoke of a Virgin Birth, nor 
did any of his kindred or his neighbors. Neither did Mark 


FLAMES OF FAITH 291 

nor John, in composing his biographies, nor did Paul in preach¬ 
ing his gospel. He was always called the son of Joseph.” 

“Why do you bring this out so plainly?” demanded Dr. 
Stanwood, in a lowered voice. 

“Because it gives us a higher regard for Jesus when we 
know that he was a human being,” replied Partridge, “but a 
human being endowed with the divine spirit of God.” 

“Should not such disclosures be kept within the ministry?” 
asked the Bishop. 

“They should be suppressed as fast as they show them¬ 
selves,” said Stanwood. “Why, just a few months ago we had 
a case of that kind in Pennsylvania. A minister—a good 
enough man, I admit—doing all this service that Dr. Partridge 
is emphasizing—was called up and asked only two questions, 
and on giving his answers, was expelled from the ministry.” 

“What were these questions?” demanded Partridge. 

“The first one was on the birth of Jesus. Did he believe 
that Jesus was born of the Virgin Mary as the result of con¬ 
tact with Almighty God?” 

What was his answer—to this—awful—question, which 
involved the honor of Joseph’s wife?” asked Partridge. 

“His answer was evasive.” 

“And the second question?” 

“Did he believe that Jesus was God?” 

“His answer?” 

“Again evasive—and he was straightway expelled.” 

“And,” cried Partridge, “he became one of the sixty mil¬ 
lions.” 

“I suppose so,” said Stanwood. 

“The divinity which we joyously acknowledge comes to us 
in a better way than that,” continued the defendant minister. 
“And then the Savior began his mission, which was to vitalize 
that wicked ‘righteousness’ with the spirit of love, and that 
made a thing called Christian character, because it was mod- 


292 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


eled on the divine nature of Jesus. When, a long time after¬ 
wards, the Romans asked Paul to explain the meaning of 
Christianity to them, he told them there were five negative 
qualities and one positive quality required to make a perfect 
man. Thou shalt not commit any impurity. Thou shalt not 
bear false witness. Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not 
kill. Thou shalt not covet. , Those were the five prohibitions, 
which cut away all the sin out of a man's life and reduced 
him to a state of righteousness, complete righteousness. But 
experience had shown how this negative perfection could make 
men monsters of self-righteousness. And so Paul, after hard 
thinking, adds these wonderful words of Jesus: Tf there be 
anything else to complete the religious state of man, it is 
comprised in this brief saying, that you shall love your neigh¬ 
bor as yourself,'—your neighbor being always that man, friend 
or foe, rich or poor, far or near, high or low, who may stand 
in need of any quality or thing which you can help him to 
obtain. That is primitive simplicity reduced to its logical 
skeleton. No dogma, no form, no sacrament,—nothing but 
perfect character moved into action by overwhelming love. 
That's all there was to it—so simple that Jesus told them that 
the Kingdom of Heaven is like unto a little child." 

“It is specious reasoning," commented the priest, bitterly. 
“Your words are eloquent, but they carry destruction with 
them. Lazarus you reject. You have denied, too, I think, 
that the fish arose from the water with the lost gold piece in 
its mouth, or that Elijah's ax floated on the surface of the 
stream." 

“Why put a literal construction upon such stories?" de¬ 
manded Dr. Partridge. “Matthew Arnold spoke the con¬ 
viction of all reasonable men when he declared: The case 
against miracles is closed. They do not happen.' And Laza¬ 
rus? What possible difference can it make to us now whether 
Jesus comforted those two bereaved sisters by convincing 


FLAMES OF FAITH 293 

them that their brother was in a higher state of life, or 
whether he brought the corrupt body out of the grave, only 
to have it die again? His authority and his mission are not 
affected by either construction. And if spiritual interpreta¬ 
tion helps you there, you will find that spiritual interpreta¬ 
tion will help you in a thousand other places. But even if 
we should concede all these things to have been literal and 
physical and actual, the time has come when they conform 
themselves to our needs only in a spiritual way; and the 
gross, material conceptions of a generation that fought about 
words are no longer essential to us. That simple teaching of 
the power of love won the world and will win the world better 
than if we should surround it with the necromancer’s art, and 
make the mountains thunder and the graves give up their 
dead!” 

Dr. Stanwood took up the book. “I should like,” said he, 
“to read what Dr. Partridge says concerning the teaching of 
the Apostle Paul on election and foreordination, by which 
some have been selected by our gracious Heavenly Father be¬ 
fore their birth to be eternally damned.” 

“Oh,” said Dr. Ambrose, “I agree with Dr. Partridge about 
that. An accidental text on which your people, under the lead 
of John Calvin, have wrecked many a life.” 

Dr. Stanwood gazed on him aghast. “Why—my brother!” 
he exclaimed. “You are as far away from the sacred truth as 
Dr. Partridge himself.” 

“And did not Calvin commit a foul and treacherous mur¬ 
der?” demanded Dr. Gordon. 

“What is the meaning of such an accusation?” cried Dr. 
Stanwood. 

“When he burnt Servetus at the stake!” responded the 
Methodist. 

The Presbyterian glared upon him in silence, and then 
turned upon the defendant. 


294 FLAMES OF FAITH 

“You have not answered,” he said. 

A text,” said Dr. Partridge, “which has no value, no mat* 
ter what its source.” 

“That,” said Dr. Stanwood grimly, “is one of the aver¬ 
ments on which you are being tried for heresy.” And then he 
added: “I cannot forget the testimony of the fathers of our 
Protestant church in America—the Reverend Samuel Willard, 
pastor of the South Church, at Boston, who tells us: 'Christ 
died for a select company that was known to him, by name, 
from eternity.’ And the saintly Jonathan Edwards, a Presi¬ 
dent of Princeton College, who assured us that, 'The bulk of 
mankind is reserved for burning/ ” 

“Then, why not add,” demanded Dr. Partridge, “that In¬ 
crease Mather, a President of Harvard, burned the Salem 
witches? And why not add, that Thomas Clap, a President of 
Yale, consigned the people of Athens to Hell because they 
had no knowledge of the true God?” 

“Have not our colleges become a bit more liberal?” asked 
the Rabbi, with sly humor. 

“ Yes > undoubtedly,” replied Dr. Stanwood, very seriously, 
“and our churches also. You know, Dr. Partridge,” he added' 
almost apologetically, “that we are not preaching those creeds 
very emphatically today.” 

“Because you dare not do it,” replied Dr. Partridge. “Yet 
when any man challenges them—as I have done—you strive 
to compass his destruction.” 

“The holy church safely interprets the Bible,” said Father 
OTiara. “Individuals cannot be trusted to do so.” 

“I deny it,” said Dr. Ambrose. “The interpretation be¬ 
longs to each individual.” 

“All innovations come in through that door,” was Father 
O’Hara’s comment. “This book is the fruit of that doctrine.” 

The Moderator tapped lightly. 

“Gentlemen,” he said. “I think we should have a hymn.” 


FLAMES OF FAITH 295 

The assembly then sang 

“I love thy church, 0 God 
The place of thine abode.” 

But the singing was done chiefly by the choir. The others 
were too much preoccupied to give their thoughts to singing. 


CHAPTER LVIII 

When the hymn had been sung the inquisition was re¬ 
sumed. 

Dr. Partridge took up the discussion where it had been 
interrupted. 

“Paul,” said he, “who never saw Jesus—who was a mur¬ 
derer and a persecutor before he became a preacher and a 
missionary-” 

“We forget his offences,” said Dr. Stanwood, “when we 
contemplate his good works.” 

“But here was Paul’s mistake,” continued Dr. Partridge. 
“The great power which conquered his own soul he tried to 
transform into a system of dogma which must autocratically 
conquer all other souls. Under the influence of Paul, religion 
has crystallized itself into a system of belief instead of a 
system of conduct, as Jesus would have it. Nations have 
slaughtered each other in battle, and at the stake, and on the 
rack, in order to establish a compulsory and universal system 
of belief.” 

“Rigorous measures have at times been necessary to the 
propagation of the faith,” said Father O’Hara. 

“As in the Spanish Inquisition,” suggested Dr. Ambrose, 
smarting under the priest’s rebuke as to private interpretation. 

A tap from the Moderator’s gavel prevented a reply, and 
Dr. Partridge continued to speak. 

“For two thousand years,” said he, “the church has stood 
upon Paul and not upon Jesus. Yet we forget that Peter and 
Paul denounced each other, even as we are denouncing each 
other here today.” 


296 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


297 


His company stood aghast. 

“How so?” demanded Dr. Stanwood. 

“You gentlemen will remember—I am sure you will—how 
Paul accused Peter of hyprocrisy in slipping away from the 
tables of the Gentiles at Antioch when the Jews approached, 
lest he should be seen in bad company—that is in Galatians, 
I think;—and how Peter warned the world against the writ¬ 
ings of Paul, which might bring the unwary to destruction.” 

“And where is that found?” asked Dr. Stanwood. 

“In Second Peter. And now these sixty millions of Ameri¬ 
cans have revolted from Paul's doctrine that religion is a 
creation of the intellect, devised to prepare men for death, the 
grave, and Heaven. They know that there is a larger life to 
be found in the teaching of Jesus, that the Kingdom of Heaven 
is within you.” 

“What, then, is your conception of eternal life?” asked Dr. 
Stanwood. 

“I know not what my own spirit may find in after years,” 
he replied. “I have no desire to live again. The Bible tells 
us very definitely that he that goeth down to the grave shall 
come up no more.” 

They were all startled at this assertion. 

“Where do you find that?” demanded Dr. Ambrose. 

“In Job—the seventh chapter, I believe,” he answered. 
“Has any man among you a real expectation of conscious 
life again? In any event, both the Catholic church and the 
Episcopal writers agree that the dead do not go to Heaven— 
and never have gone to Heaven—until the final day of judg¬ 
ment.” 

“A period of purgation has been established to endure 
through the whole period of the existence of the human race,” 
interrupted Father O’Hara. 

“Not quite that,” said Bishop Moberly. “The point is un¬ 
certain. But we hold to the opinion that all those who have 


298 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


died have an almost semi-conscious and brooding continuity 
until the last trumpet shall sound.” 

“Truly a dismal conception!” rejoined Dr. Partridge. 
“What, then, would be the value of my view—of any man’s 
view—of immortality, when the most approved theology brings 
it to this impoverished negation?” 

“That is not my view!” cried Dr. Ambrose. “I believe that 
a Christian dying goes immediately into the presence of God.” 

Dr. Partridge smiled one of his patient smiles. 

“Very well, then,” said he. “But in the presence of this 
conflict, I venture to asseverate that the most practical form 
of eternal life is the perpetual existence of the human race 
here on the earth, progressing always toward a state of per¬ 
fection. Could any man conceive felicity beyond that? Surely, 
every man should pattern his own life so that his children will 
promote this progress, and thus ever onward to the end.” 

“These are the vagaries of private interpretation,” said 
Father O’Hara. “All wisdom and truth lie in the divine bosom 
of the church.” 

“In times past,” continued Dr. Partridge, “the church has 
given the world to the rich, and kept Heaven for the poor. 
But now the poor are relinquishing Heaven to the church, 
and demanding the world for themselves.” 

“Then we must have more laws to control them,” cried 
Dr. Gordon, emphatically. “We have established the pro¬ 
hibition of liquor, and now we should carry on the great 
crusade until we secure the enactment of solemn statutes 
whereby tobacco, cigars, cigarets, cards, dancing, golf, the 
theatre, and every form of Sunday recreation, and every form 
of Sunday labor, newspapers, automobiles, railroad trains, and 
all, are eradicated from our national life forever! Then, and 
then only, will the church come into her own.” 

The reporter for the New York Times said “Wow!” and the 


FLAMES OF FAITH 299 

newspaper men carefully wrote down this speech for editorial 
comment. Dr. Partridge quickly countered on his antagonist. 

“But when you stop the newspapers on Sunday,” he said, 
“you must also stop them on Monday. Can the world exist 
without communication for two days in each week?” 

“It is worth a trial,” replied the Methodist. 

“And the railroads,” pursued Dr. Partridge. “Would you 
stop the distribution of the necessaries of life for twenty-four 
hours each week?” 

“It is worth a trial,” repeated Dr. Gordon. 

That is the spirit of bigotry which has driven many of 
these millions away from the church,” protested Dr. Part- 
ridge. All the rest will leave when you undertake to com¬ 
plete that program of iniquity against the American people.” 

“Do you oppose prohibition?” demanded Dr. Gordon, with 
his finger raised. 

“In the Constitution—yes,” answered Dr. Partridge, with¬ 
out hesitation. “It was a violation of the right of the people 
to insert a police regulation—in effect, the statute itself—in 
that great document. You took advantage of the deep emo¬ 
tions of the great war to do that thing. Four million men were 
away from the polls—in the army—when it was done. You 
never could have done it at another time. No man among you 
approves it for himself, but every man aims it at his neighbor.” 

“I have never touched it except as medicine,” interjected 
Dr. Stanwood. 

“Precisely,” rejoined Dr. Partridge, “and you have it in 
your house now?” 

“A very small supply—almost nothing,” answered the prose¬ 
cuting witness. 

“Well, your fellow citizens cannot get it as medicine with¬ 
out breaking the law,” replied Dr. Partridge. “The law hedges 
it about with so many restrictions that it is impossible to 
obtain it, and many men and women have died for want of it 


300 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


in emergencies. Have the rest of you got it in your cellars?” 
he demanded, moved by a spirit of test. 

There were some red faces in the group, as he turned his 
gaze from one to the other. 

“One bottle, carefully locked in the closet,” said Dr. Am¬ 
brose. 

“There is much damnation in one bottle!” commented Dr. 
Partridge. 

“Not more than three or four bottles,” said Dr. Gordon, 
when his turn came, “for strict medicinal necessity.” 

“We have some in the cellar at the parish house,” ad¬ 
mitted Father O’Hara. “It is frequently needed in our work 
among the people.” 

The Bishop’s turn came next. “My parishioners keep me 
supplied—my wants are moderate,” he said. “One of them 
now and then sends me some excellent champagne.” 

“Sends it!” echoed Dr. Partridge. “Oh, ho! Where is the 
revenue officer?” And then, turning to the Rabbi, he said: 
“I will not ask you, Dr. Kaufman.” 

“But I will confess,” answered the Rabbi, cheerfully. “We 
have a goodly store at our house, and I shall greatly regret 
to see it exhausted—unless the law shall be changed into 
something that takes account of the needs and wishes of all 
the people.” 

“Oliver Cromwell was a very great man, in many ways,” 
continued Dr. Partridge, “and when the Puritans of England 
came to him and urged him to close all the public houses, he 
answered them that it was not fair that nine temperate men 
should go thirsty because the tenth one drank too much. I 
am against prohibition as a violation of liberty. You promised 
that it would stop crime, yet the world is full of violence, vice 
and immorality. Men have used wine from the most ancient 
human existence. The sick, the infirm, the aged need a stim¬ 
ulant, as Paul declared that Timothy needed a stimulant. And 


FLAMES OF FAITH 301 

did not Jesus drink those fine wines of Palestine until he him¬ 
self tells us that they called him a winebibber? And did not 
his first miracle consist in the turning of water into wine at a 
wedding feast, with the testimony of the Bible that his wine 
was better than that which had been served before? And 
have you forgotten that peculiar passage in the second chap¬ 
ter of Acts, where Peter tells the scoffing multitude that the 
Disciples are not full of wine because it is only three o'clock 
in the afternoon ?" 

“That's a new one on me," said the Times man. “No drinks 
until after three o’clock." 

“And it is not yet noon," retorted the Tribune man. “You 
must go thirsty for three hours." 

“You cannot maintain the vigorous life of a hundred mil¬ 
lion people like ours," the defendant continued, “without a 
stimulant. And yet, year by year, we were approaching nearer 
and nearer to a very practical system of temperance through the 
growth of character. Men in business never drank before six 
o'clock in the evening, and seldom then; workingmen had 
learned that they could not retain their positions, and much 
less be promoted, when they abused liquor; and our public 
banquets had for a long time discarded wine. Local option, 
and other forms of control, were multiplying themselves. Tem¬ 
perance was already an attribute of American character. The 
degenerates who misused it, will still misuse it, while the nation 
is cut off from its lawful use, yet everywhere it is being un¬ 
lawfully used—and always will be, because the law, as it 
stands now, is a law against nature." 

“What is your expectation on the subject, Dr. Partridge?" 
inquired the Rabbi. 

“I believe," he answered, “that the Supreme Court, taking 
into consideration public sentiment, as it has done in times 
past, will in time declare that the Prohibition Amendment 
was not legally adopted by some of the States, and that there 


302 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


was not a legal quorum present in Congress when that body- 
acted upon it. Until that is done, the law will serve the rich 
and oppress the poor.” 

“Where would you make your appeal?” asked Dr. Gordon. 

“It is by the growth of character,” he answered, “that we 
should seek the attainment of every improvement of morals, 
rather than by legislation. Our forefathers meant that the 
Constitution should grant to Congress the power to make laws 
upon a given subject, but this new tendency is engrafting the 
laws themselves into the Constitution where they can never 
be taken out. When Dr. Gordon gets his blue law program 
into the Constitution, working by a small but well organized 
minority against the great unorganized mass of the people, 
as was done in the case of prohibition, taking the sun out of 
Sunday, making the day hideous, and the church hateful, he 
will have changed our sublime organic law into an instrument 
of tyranny and oppression.” 

“We must bring the world to Jesus by the force of law,” 
cried Dr. Gordon. 

“Jesus never invoked an Act of Parliament to make the 
world better,” answered Dr. Partridge. “He appealed only 
to the infinite heart of man. Some of the preachers of this 
country are trying to make themselves a third house in every 
legislature—they are making themselves the unelected and un¬ 
commissioned dictators of the social life of America, they are 
even organizing themselves into vigilance committees—bands 
of fanatics, much more dangerous to liberty than bands of 
outlaws, because the laws can control the outlaws—and their 
sin is that they are attempting to accomplish their ends by 
Constitutional amendments and statutory enactments, instead 
of making their appeal to human character. And what you 
are proposing to do will cause the final ruin of the church.” 

At this bold declaration the great audience broke into a 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


303 


tumult of applause which caused the Moderator to rap loudly 
with his gavel. y 

“A few weeks ago,” continued Dr. Partridge, “I beheld a 
prominent preacher—the minister of a large congregation- 
follow a woman for three blocks until he saw her, or thought 
he saw her, accost a man-then he called a policeman and 
had her sent to prison. Jesus would have torn that preacher 
asunder with his hands! ” 

“If the Government will not do its work, the Church must 
do it for them,” said Dr. Stanwood. 

Since when have we been commissioned to usurp the things 
that are Cesar’s?” demanded Dr. Partridge. 

There was no answer. 

“The church,” he continued, “is trying to rescue the 
failure of its pulpit by a frantic appeal to law. It is formu¬ 
lating statutes, to enforce every human virtue which has not 
responded to its preaching. The tyranny of the medieval 
church the cruelty of the Spanish Inquisition—are to be sur¬ 
passed by the oppression which the churches are now attempt¬ 
ing to exercise through legislation upon human conduct. Gen¬ 
tlemen—you yourselves have begun the conflict, and tli^e 
sixty millions are now attacking the validity of your charter 
I pray you—take heed to that!” 

When the applause had subsided, Dr. Stanwood again 
opened the book. 

One of the particularly reprehensible averments of this 
work, said he, “comes to us in this passage: 

The sense of the supernatural is long since dead We de¬ 
ceive ourselves in professing to cherish any belief in it. All 
sane human experience is against it.’ 

Is not that a denial of the existence of God?” 

. “ No >” answered Dr. Partridge, vigorously, “but the aston¬ 
ishing progress of science has increased our knowledge to 
such an extent that the ancient and crude conceptions of di- 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


304 

vine revelation, as given in the Bible and in the traditions of 
the church, require to be supported by modern testimony, or 
changed to accord with the newer truth. Those English 
clergymen who met the other day were honest and courageous 
and within their rights when they adopted a resolution de¬ 
claring that, if God indeed possesses a conscious knowledge 
of this world and its inhabitants, we must dictate to him that 
our faith can make no further progress—nay, that it is actu¬ 
ally perishing—until he shall give us a new and continuing 
expression of his power and his will, such as the most stolid 
man cannot reject.” 

“Do we not receive such a manifestation through the still 
small voice that comforted Elijah?” asked Dr. Stanwood. 

“No,” replied the clergyman. “We do not.” 

A kindly smile played on Rabbi Kaufman’s face. “Re¬ 
ligious bigotry is in our blood,” he said. “We are born that 
way.” 

“Yes,” answered Dr. Partridge, taking up the thought, “and 
when we intermarry—a Protestant with a Catholic, or either 
of these with a Jew—the thing that ought to harmonize their 
souls sways them into mutual suspicion and conflict—and the 
children born of such marriages only aggravate the infelicity.” 

Father O’Hara took this as a stab. “The church must war 
through her children for truth in the household,” said he. 
“Remember the Scriptural command, ‘Yoke not yourselves 
with unbelievers!’” 

“Then,” said Dr. Partridge, “the church is a meddler and 
a mischief maker!” 

“Is not the church the only means to stay the wrath of 
God?” demanded Dr. Stanwood. 

Dr. Partridge turned upon him in amazement. “Why 
should there be any wrath of God?” he asked. 

“It’s a necessary part of the system,” interjected Bishop 
Moberly. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


305 

“I am trying to teach that the wrath of God has no proper 
place in human affairs,” cried Dr. Partridge. “The wrath of 
God is a thing which came into our Bible from the heathen 
tribes. From them we learned to roast bulls, goats and rams 
in the open fields, so that the savory smoke of the sacrifice, 
ascending into Heaven, would reach the nostrils of God and 
assuage his wrath. Is not that a fine conception of a Heavenly 
Father! Jesus rejected this pagan practice, declaring, T love 
mercy, and not sacrifice’; but the Apostles kept it up long 
after his death—until the people would tolerate it no longer.” 

But Dr. Stanwood said, with a benignant tone, “Wrath and 
love—these two qualities make up the divinity of God.” 

Dr. Partridge would not have it that way. “The Divinity 
of God,” said he, “is the spirit which vitalizes the divinity 
of man. When we all agree on that, we can have only one 
religion, although that one religion may have expression in 
a thousand forms.” 

“Then, where is the unity of Christ’s church?” demanded 
Father O’Hara. 

“You had church unity once,” answered the accused min¬ 
ister. “It was not so very long after the fall of the Roman 
Empire—it was something like five hundred years after 
Christ—wasn’t it?—that the church held an undisputed sway 
over the world; and the period of something like a thousand 
years in which she held dominion—what is that period called, 
Dr. Stanwood?” 

“Why—I think we call that—the Dark Ages,” responded 
the chief accuser. 

“Precisely. Yet there you had one perfect system of be¬ 
lief. This earth, a mere vestibule; overhead, the blue Heaven; 
under our feet, a roaring Hell. And the church holding the 
keys—giving eternal life to whom she would, giving eternal 
torture to whom she would!” 


306 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


The Herald man now whispered, “Hot stuff! ^ 

“In spite of this domination of dogmatic faith/’ continued 
I)r. Partridge, “in spite of this absolute ecclesiastical power, 
the world, since creation, was never so wicked as it was dur¬ 
ing that thousand years! Why, humanity passed through a 
tunnel a thousand years long! Is it the purpose of this trial 
to restore the Dark Ages?” 

“If that must be the price of restoring Christ’s dismem¬ 
bered body—yes,” replied Dr. Stanwood. 

Dr. Partridge appealed from one to the other. “Can you— 
either of you—” he asked, “recall the text of the first sermon 
that Jesus preached?” 

They looked helplessly from one to the other, but made 
no reply. And Rabbi Kaufman said: “He took his text from 
Isaiah—the most beautiful of all the utterances of Jesus.” 

“You speak the truth there, Rabbi, “replied Dr. Partridge. 
“The sermon is in the fourth chapter of Luke.” He took 
up the Bible. “Remember, he was not treading the earth with 
heels of thunder, like a god. He was a young workingman, 
with the sweat of the carpenter shop on his brow. It was the 
beginning of his mission, when he had resolved to dedicate his 
life to the world; and he assembled his neighbors and friends, 
his mother, his four brothers and his two sisters around him— 
Mary’s children and Joseph’s-” 

“No—no! I protest!” interrupted Father O’Hara. “Not 
Mary’s children!” 

“Read their names in the sixth chapter of Mark,” pursued 
the minister. “Joseph and Mary had many children born to 
them—at least seven—Jesus being the eldest. Well, Jesus 
took the Old Testament in his hand, opened it, and read the 
text from the sixty-first chapter of Isaiah; and this is what he 
read: ‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath 
anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor; he hath sent me 
to heal the brokenhearted—’ how magnificent that is!—‘To 


FLAMES OF FAITH 307 

preach deliverance to the captives, and recovering of sight to 
the blind, and to set at liberty them that are bruised.’ ” 

That will knock some of these birds,” whispered the Tri- 
bune man. 

“A notable text,” conceded Dr. Stanwood. 

“That, my dear friends,” continued Dr. Partridge, “was the 
platform of the greatest leader the people ever had. No pro¬ 
gram of any statesman, politician, or demagogue has ever ap¬ 
proached its compassion for all the ills that flesh is heir to.” 

The Rabbi spoke again. “And the significant fact about 
this whole episode of his first sermon is, that at that very 
moment he was despised and rejected of men. They drove 
him from the church, and compelled him to flee for his life.” 

“You are right, Dr. Kaufman. He avoided the synagogue 
after that to take his place with publicans and sinners. He 
made his place with the sixty millions of his time. He de¬ 
nounced the existing church as a whited sepulchre, rich in 
marble and stained glass on the outside, and within, filled 
with dead men’s bones! The priests he called hypocrites, and 
denied the efficacy of the whole body of your theology to make 
the people happy. Is not that precisely the situation which 
the world finds itself in today?” 

“Pray tell us how we shall recognize his gospel, then,” de¬ 
manded Dr. Stanwood, “if we do not find it in the creeds of 
the churches?” 

“Wherever you see society forgiving contrite sin,” replied 
Dr. Partridge, “wherever you see women and children cared 
for in their essential needs, wherever you see rich men de¬ 
voting their wealth to the needs of mankind, wherever you see 
helpful and uplifting service—there—and not necessarily in 
the church at all—you see the gospel of Jesus growing in all its 
power.” 

“That puts me among the sixty millions,” whispered the 
World man. 


308 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


“Heretic!” hissed the Times man. 

“But how can this gospel be promoted outside of the 
church?” asked Dr. Stanwood. 

“Jesus delivered this gospel outside of the church,” re¬ 
sponded Dr. Partridge. “Yet, you men, who call yourselves 
the church, are trying to hush the cry of humanity with dead 
forms, obsolete legends, supernatural impositions, and mysteri¬ 
ous dogmas about which no two of you agree.” 

“But after your book-” demanded the priest. “What 

is left?” 

“We have the Bible—when it shall be purged of non-essen¬ 
tials and cut down to one-tenth of its bulk,” answered the 
minister. “We have God uplifting ourselves. We have Jesus 
as a leader, and his precious message to the human race. We 
have all the other leaders of our race from the beginning until 
now—whom you do not have!” 

“It is a precious message!” exclaimed the Rabbi. 

“When those people of old,” continued the minister, “de¬ 
manded where the Kingdom of Heaven was, Jesus told them 
it was not up there in the sky—it was not in Rome, nor in 
Geneva, nor in Jerusalem—it was in the human heart. The 
church has never learned that. When you carry supernatural¬ 
ism too far you kill the human spirit. Look at the degraded 
and ignorant state in which one-half of our immigration comes 
to us from so-called Christian countries! Look how religion 
in Russia has been given over to superstition until ninety per 
cent of those people are helpless and hopeless in the grasp of 
a pagan and heathen idolatry! Russia can never rise until 
she totally destroys that system. Better by far that we should 
do without religion than prolong such perversions of it! It was 
human life that Jesus came to save. Human life—human life! ” 

He repeated this phrase with so much emotion that the 
great audience once more burst into spontaneous applause. 

Dr. Gordon now spoke. 



FLAMES OF FAITH 


309 

“His book says here that the church is constantly misin¬ 
terpreting the nature of God. I would like to ask the mean¬ 
ing of that charge ?” 

“Let me give you an example,” replied Partridge. “Only 
yesterday I received in the mail an appeal for money for the 
starving children of Russia, and the circular said that but 
for the grace of God those children might be American chil¬ 
dren. Don’t you see the hideousness of such a conception of 
God—that he would willingly inflict suffering like that on 
the little children of Russia? It would be only a devil that 
would contrive such an outrage. Yet the church is constantly 
praying God against such an exercise of his diabolism.” 

Dr. Stanwood was turning the pages of the book. 

“You have said here,” he remarked, “that a dead soldier 
cannot return from the battlefield.” 

“I said that because one or two great men, with their minds 
unhinged, are teaching the bereaved hearts of our people 
otherwise.” 

“But the spirit of Samuel was called up when Saul went to 
the witch of Endor—was it not?” 

“No. If you will read the story you will note that Saul does 
not really see the spirit of Samuel, nor does he converse with? 
him directly, but that the Witch, like our modern gin-soaked 
mediums, tells Saul that Samuel is present, and then she car¬ 
ries on the interview, inventing the words for Samuel with 
which she misleads Saul. Read it again, Dr. Stanwood, and 
see how cleverly she imposes upon Saul. No! There is no 
ground for spiritualism in a sane mind.” 

Dr. Robinson tapped with his gavel. 

“We shall have a hymn,” said he. 

And they sang, 

“Sun of my soul, thou Savior dear, 

It is not night if thou art near.” 


CHAPTER LIX 


When the hymn was finished Dr. Partridge resumed the 
controversy where it had been stopped by the watchful Mod¬ 
erator. 

By this time his defense had become a serious attack on his 
accusers. Whether he had yet opened the way to a conviction 
or an acquittal was a question which deepened the interest of 
the audience in the great trial. The Carringtons, and the little 
group of friends sitting with them, followed his fortunes in 
every word that was uttered, reserving for him their unshaken 
confidence and affection, no matter what the end might be. 
Mary Ballantyne at every dramatic moment leaned forward 
in an ecstasy of attention, so that she might not lose one word. 

Father O Hara, said Dr. Partridge, “in these recent weeks 
I have been the unworthy minister of a church which accepts 
into its fellowship all men, of whatsoever belief, of whatsoever 

manner of life. When they feel the power of sympathy_ 

their characters are changed! A man has but to enter the 
door in order to be a member in full standing. No matter 
what his race or creed, he finds the Kingdom of Heaven there, 
and he is soon transformed. We ask him no questions—he 
makes no declarations. His presence proclaims his need.” 

“One of these churches with billiard tables for the mob, I 
suppose,” commented Dr. Stanwood. 

“Yes, in the building where our work is directed we have 
billiard tables, and many other games and diversions,” replied 
Dr. Partridge, pleasantly. “And we are rapidly obtaining 
control of gymnasiums, swimming pools, sewing rooms, lunch 

310 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


311 


rooms, farms for summer vacations, employment bureaus, 
children’s nurseries, educational classes—and we have good 
music and a large room for dancing.” 

The other group was stricken with horror, and the reporters 
made a note of it. Dr. Ambrose drawled, “This tango thing!” 

“And a theatre,” added Dr. Partridge, completing the pro¬ 
gram of his offensive institution. Then, as he beheld their 
active indication of disapprobation, he added: “Don’t forget, 
that five million people in this country go to the theatre 
every day.” 

Dr. Gordon protested. “Our church has recently declared 
that no dancing master or actor can get into the Methodist 
church without sincere repentance. Thank God,” said he, 
“there are no loyal Methodists among those five millions!” 

“Oh—yes, there are,” responded Dr. Partridge, brightly. 
“Plenty of them! And the church will grow in strength when 
she uses the theatre to do a part of her work. In fact, the 
theatre is today doing a large part of the church’s work— 
emphasizing the good things in life that make men happy, and 
warning against the evil things that bring degradation and 
misery.” 

“Bless my soul—I rather like that idea!” exclaimed Bishop 
Moberly. “Did not the Apostle Paul once preach in a the¬ 
atre?” 

“Yes,” replied Dr. Stanwood, with great severity, “but one 
of his hearers fell out of a window and was killed!” 

“That was because Paul’s sermon was too long and put 
him to sleep,” said Dr. Partridge. 

There was a faint laugh from some of the pews, and the 
Tribune man whispered, “That’s one on Paul!” 

“Besides, he was not killed,” continued the defendant, “be¬ 
cause Paul revived him.” 

“Please note that, Mr. Moderator!” cried Dr. Stanwood. 
“The Bible explicitly states that he was killed.” 


312 FLAMES OF FAITH 

“No dead man was ever restored to life,” insisted Dr. 
Partridge. 

“But there are seven cases in the Bible of the dead restored 
to life,” cried Dr. Stanwood. 

“If they were really dead, none of them was restored,” 
maintained Dr. Partridge. 

Then, while the others glared on him, and the newspaper 
men smiled at his indomitable courage, he proceeded with his 
main statement. 

“We make use of all the agencies available to society for 
innocent enjoyment, under proper supervision. But these are 
the accessories to our work. My serious statement is that we 
have in my church ten thousand men and women, Protestants, 
Catholics, Jews, Mohammedans, Chinese, Japanese—the rich, 
the poor, the high, and the low. While the rest of you have 
invested three billions of dollars in two hundred and fifty 
thousand churches which are kept open on the average only 
six hours a week, and devoted to the preaching of set forms, 
and only half-filled by meager congregations—we have a free 
church worthy of America, with its doors open every day in 
the year.” 

“What do you call this church?” inquired Dr. Gordon, with 
no attempt to disguise his displeasure. 

“We call it the Church in the Living Heart,” he answered. 
“All my life I have been grieved by the names which pervert 
these edifices to partisan groups; names which narrow their 
work, waste their resources, and repel the people! Yours, 
Father O’Hara, the longest of all—The Holy Roman Catholic 
and Apostolic Church! These others—nearly as long—all of 
them forbidding and exclusive names! I wish that some earnest 
man would go up and down this land and with hammer and 
chisel cut the name from every church that stands; then forbid 
any priest or preacher to call himself or his church by these 
dividing names! I long now to be a part of a church which 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


313 

has no name—which men cannot call Catholic, nor Piotestant, 
nor anything else but just the church. We should then begin 
to get together. But while we are establishing our work we 
call our organization the Church in the Living Heart. It is the 
Mohammedan’s church, the Jew’s church, the Buddhist’s 
church—any man’s church who seeks its ministrations.” 

“To what beliefs do you convert men in this truly American 
church?” asked Father O’Hara, sarcastically. 

“We don’t convert them to beliefs,” replied the minister. 
“Jesus never required them to believe.” 

“What!” shouted the priest. “Have you forgotten Mark 
sixteen, sixteen—‘He that believeth not shall be damned!’ ” 

“He never said it!” cried Dr. Partridge, hotly. “All texts 
like that—all those horrible threats—were written in by cruel 
men who wanted to maintain a system. They are unworthy of 
Jesus. The revolt of our sixty millions is a revolt against 
belief. Let God establish an embassy upon the earth, and there 
will never be any lack of faith.” 

“He has already done so!” cried the priest. “Its seat is at 
the Vatican!” 

The Protestant ministers all protested at once. “No, no, no! ” 
they cried. 

“Human testimony is not enough,” replied Partridge. “The 
ambassador must be an angel clothed in the armor of Heaven. 
Nothing less than that will hold the world to the things which 
you gentlemen are claiming as a divine religion. No, we preach 
no beliefs. That is why everybody can CQme to it without 
being offended. We convert them to lives. We teach them that 
religion is life, not a dogma; a system of action, not a formula 
of belief. We put all our aspirations into prayer. If prayer 
has no other answer, it makes us think and do the things we 
pray for. Tennyson was right when he said that more things 
are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. We put our 
prayers into action, and our wishes into deeds.” 


314 FLAMES OF FAITH 

“A church without a Bible,” ventured Dr. Gordon. “Is it 
not so?” 

“We read the inspiring passages of the Bible,” explained the 
minister, “its great and beautiful passages in prophecy, poetry, 
oratory, its comfort to the living, its solace for the dead—above 
all, its call to righteousness and mercy. We never fail to quote 
those wonderful declarations by which Jesus lifted the souls of 
men out of the earth—like this one; ‘I am the Light of the 
World; he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but 
shall be the Light of Life! ? And this one: ‘Whosoever drink- 
eth of the water that I shall give him, shall never thirst.’ 
Oh, no, we are not without the Bible! But we believe, with 
Jowett, the great master at Oxford, that the Bible should be 
criticized like other books. Many parts of it we do not read 
—many parts of it we cannot believe—for example, those last 
five verses in Mark that have been referred to here.” 

“I trust you are noting this, Mr. Moderator!” shouted Dr. 
Stanwood. 

“We hear it all,” replied the President. 

“We read the Bible,” continued the minister, “as the testi¬ 
mony of earnest men about God as they comprehended him. 
When we comprehend him differently, we do not fear to pro¬ 
gress beyond those ancient and fallacious conceptions.” 

Father O’Hara could not keep sclent at this. “The mother 
church teaches her children,” said he, “that every word in the 
Sacred Scriptures, from the first verse in Genesis to the last 
verse of Revelation, was written at the express dictation and 
command of Almighty God.” 

“Then where did Moses obtain his laws?” demanded Dr. 
Partridge. 

“On Sinai, amidst fire and thunder,” replied the priest, with 
dramatic emphasis. 

“So says the Bible,” answered the minister, “but we now 
know that he took them from Hammurabi, a king who lived 


FLAMES OF FAITH 315 

in Babylon many hundreds of years before Abraham. You 
know that as well as I do.” 

“Tut, tut, tut!’.’ exclaimed Dr. Gordon. “That’s historical 
—not ecclesiastical.” 

“But I am told,” said Stanwood, “that you are using a book 
of your own which you call The New Bible. Will you answer 
as to that?” 

“We are preparing a Bible, not yet published, which will 
be called The New Bible. That is right.” 

“And where did you obtain such a work?” demanded Father 
O’Hara, in a voice filled with disdain. “Was it given to you 
from Almighty God—like Mahomet and Joseph Smith?” 

No, answered Dr. Partridge, with serene patience. “It 
was not handed down to us from on high. In fact, I compiled 
it chiefly myself, but with valuable assistance from many others 

ministers, teachers, scholars—all of them seekers after 
righteousness.” 

“But what is in it?” persisted the priest. 

Partridge took up a Holy Bible in his hand, and turned its 
pages rapidly as he continued to speak. 

“First of all, then, there is a large part of the old Bible 
in it. From the book of Genesis we have taken the first verse, 
and fr6m the book of Exodus we have retained the ten com¬ 
mandments, in a condensed form, and after that we have dis¬ 
carded entirely the five books of Moses.” 

His hearers stood aghast; even the Rabbi turned pale. 

“We have given the ten commandments a modern form,” he 
explained, “in this way. Let me read our version to you. We 
call them Rules for the Conduct of Life.” 

I accept God as the spirit of goodness. 

I take self-control and service to be the will of God. 

I will not follow any false gods, nor accept creeds that 
falsify God. 


316 FLAMES OF FAITH 

I will not worship nor give religious respect to any image 
or picture. 

I will not curse nor use profane or unclean words. 

I shall remember all days as days of human service. 

I shall honor my father and my mother all the days of 
my life. 

I shall not kill either the body or the good name of another. 

I shall not wilfully do any act that will bring sorrow or 
suffering upon another. 

I shall not steal nor be dishonest in any way. 

I shall not in any way bear false witness. 

I shall not covet, but shall strive by honest toil to acquire 
the things I wish for. 

“A great gain in their value, it seems to me,” commented 
the Rabbi. 

And Partridge continued: 

“All those old tales, wanderings, battles, fables, genealogies, 
iniquities, idolatries and indecencies we reject. If anyone 
desires to read them as ancient traditions—and they are no 
better than the Antiquities of Josephus—let him get them in 
the old Bible. They have no value today.” 

“But how about the revelations and the revealments which 
God has made to the world through these sacred writings?” 
demanded the priest. 

“Did God really make such revelations and revealments?” 
answered Partridge. “Is it not time to examine that question 
with care and with reason? Is it reasonable to believe that 
God would declare himself in audible voice to those ancient 
tribes, composing for them a code of laws which controlled 
the most minute details of their food, their clothing, and their 
lives—is it reasonable to believe that, and then believe that it 
is the same God who has kept silent from that ancient day 
and absented himself from the world in all its necessities, its 
oppressions, and its agonies? No! Let us be reasonable. The 
leaders of those peoples exercised a custom of declaring Thus 


FLAMES OF FAITH 317 

Saith The Lord for everything that seemed wise to them. 
Their habit was precisely the habit of the German Kaiser and 
his militant advisors, who asserted, in the same way, that God 
had commanded them to murder the nations in order that 
the nations might be Germanized! Reasonable and righteous 
men can no longer accept as an article of religion the Jewish 
scriptures which present God as a heathen deity; delighting in 
the ravaging of neighboring communities by fire and sword, 
and exacting an appeasement of his wrath and the stoppage 
of pestilence and death by the smoke and incense which 
ascended into his nostrils! No—those Jewish invaders were 
the Germans of their time, and their histories and biographies 
should no longer have any value in the modern conception of 
religion. We have no use for them.” 

“And having disposed of Moses, what then?” pursued the 
priest. 

“Joshua—the story of the Jews driving out the Canaanites 
—it’s like the Germans driving out the Belgians—wc exclude 
the whole of Joshua.” 

“And then?” 

“Judges, with more idolatries, we reject. Also Ruth, a 
pastoral idyl. The two books of Samuel, the two books of 
Kings, and the two books of Chronicles we have no use for. 
Let them stand as ancient literature. From Ezra and Nehe- 
miah we preserve a few brief passages. Esther we reject—as 
Luther did—an ancient tradition, with no mention of God. 
Job we omit. It can easily be found by readers who seek for 
it as a dramatic narrative—intensely interesting in the first 
chapter, and deadly dull thereafter. The Psalms—a few of 
them—we retain, but in condensed form. A few of the 
Proverbs and some short verses from Ecclesiastes we keep. 
The Song of Solomon—we reject as unfit for reading.” 

“And that brings you to the prophets,” exclaimed Ambrose. 
“I tremble to think what you have done with them!” 


318 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


“We have given them much the same treatment,” replied 
Partridge. “A few of the noble and exalted passages, with 
their exhortations to righteousness, have been culled from 
Isaiah; only a few verses from Jeremiah; nothing at all from 
Lamentations; Ezekiel, the dream of dry bones we keep—it 
has a message to the churches of today! Daniel we exclude— 
you must seek him, if you want him, in the old Bible, as 
the hero of a series of fables. His first five chapters contain 
good stories. The next seven are deadly dull. We have no 
use today for him or his adventures. From the other twelve 
prophets we make brief extracts, but we have no room for 
Jonah and his big fish. We retain the bright and happy and 
useful things only, and exclude the great mass of dull and 
unreadable material.” 

“This defendant is traveling fast to his ruin!” gasped Stan- 
wood. “But—go on!” 

“We come now to the New Testament. From the Four 
Gospels we exclude all that is supernatural—all that is miracu¬ 
lous. The parts retained are combined into one condensed 
and consecutive narrative. We retain a part of the Sermon 
on the Mount, some of the parables, some of the preaching, 
the crucifixion. There we stop.” 

“Note the significance of that!” cried Stanwood. “After the 
crucifixion he declares, There we stop!” 

“From Acts we exclude the miracles,” continued Partridge, 
“and condense the narrative to a quarter of its length. We 
omit the whole mass of PauPs letters to the churches—the 
whole of his Epistles—except the fifteenth chapter of First 
Corinthians, containing his fine argument on immortality. 
Some things from the letter to Timothy are retained—among 
others, the advice to drink wine. All the rest of the Epistles 
of the other writers are omitted, and when we come to Reve¬ 
lation we preserve the two or three pages of exalted expression 
where it is understandable, and omit the bulk of the book 


319 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

because it is a mystical and chaotic riot of the imagination.” 

“May I ask the defendant, Mr. Moderator,” inquired Am¬ 
brose, “what were his sensations in thus mutilating the Book 
of Revelation, when he came to the final words, reading 
thus—” He opened the Bible and read from the final chapter, 
as follows: “ 'If any man shall take away from the words of 
the book of this prophecy, God shall take away his part from 
the tree of life,’and out of the holy city, which are written in 
this Book.’ What were your sensations when your destroying 
hand reached that passage, Dr. Partridge?” 

“I have destroyed nothing,” replied Partridge. “I have 
made a selection from the Bible of those passages which are 
readable and valuable. Why would you object?” he cried, 
raising his voice. “What man among you has read in the 
Old Testament any of these excluded parts during the past 
year—during the past ten years? And in the other selections, 
from the New Testament, have I not retained only the things 
which give life and vitality to the spirit of righteousness, 
excluding only the things that are dogmatic, controversial, or 
of importance only at the time they were written, and not 
sought for in the life of our own age? But at any rate, I 
repeat that our work is a convenient selection of great litera¬ 
ture, and not in any way destructive merely because we have 
not chosen to retain the whole of it.” 

“And does your new Bible stop there?” demanded Gordon, 
who had listened with amazement. 

“No. We have then added many inspiring passages from 
a hundred and fifty other writers, not found in the Bible— 
authors of ancient and modern times—Plato, Socrates, Con¬ 
fucius, Marcus Aurelius, Mohammed, Buddha; the renaissance 
writers—Shakespeare, from whom we have made liberal drafts; 
Kant, from whom we take the categorical imperative, which, 

I think, he defines to mean that you must do every act of your 
life as if your conduct were going to affect the whole universe; 


320 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


from Schopenhauer, we insert his declaration that there is a 
need for adversity in men’s life, lest they be swollen with arro¬ 
gance, and go mad; we have a few things from the political 
orators, calling us to a better government; President Harding’s 
Christmas speech on securing world peace by international con¬ 
ference; President Coolidge against mob law; and then the 
modern pioneers of science—some things from Darwin and 
Huxley, and quite a lot from Herbert Spencer. The poets, of 
course, of all the ages, down to Tennyson and Kipling. You 
can read the whole of it in two or three evenings. Such is our 
New Bible, our modern book of civilization, peace, righteous¬ 
ness and mercy.” 

“A remarkable confession!” exclaimed Stanwood. “Mr. 
Moderator, is further testimony necessary to a conviction?” 

The Moderator conferred with his colleagues, and then 
spoke. 

“We do not see grounds for a conviction in Dr. Partridge’s 
description of the contents of this so-called New Bible,” said 
he. “He seems merely to have made a compilation, suitable 
to his own judgment and tastes, retaining such parts and 
passages from the Holy Bible as attracted him, and excluding 
the other parts of it. We see nothing reprehensible in that. 
The fact that he has added other works to the sacred passages 
thus chosen seems not to be objectionable. All preachers 
make use of the whole field of literature for purposes of illus¬ 
tration and example. Indeed, the Episcopal church, at its last 
annual convention, seriously proposed to amend the ten com¬ 
mandments. Am I correct in saying that, Bishop Moberly?” 

“Yes,” answered the Bishop, “that has been frequently dis¬ 
cussed. It has, in fact, been done.” 

“Very well,” continued the Moderator, “but if Dr. Partridge 
can do good work by emphasizing these biblical selections, we 
see nothing offensive in discarding the other portions. Let 
the examination proceed.” 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


321 


There was applause from the pews over this decision, 
although the Moderator's statement plainly disappointed the 
inquisitors. 

“What is the nature of the service, may I ask?" inquired 
the priest. 

“A service of dignity and devotion," replied Dr. Partridge, 
“given in the English language, and not, as you do it in your 
church, Father O’Hara, in Latin, of which no member of your 
congregation—pardon me, sir—understands one word." 

“And the sacraments of this church!" pursued Father 
O’Hara, reddening. 

“We have none," replied the minister, “save those which 
are enacted in the heart. No washing of feet, no circumcision, 
no transubstantiation, which revolted the people in the sixth 
of John, as a piece of pure cannibalism—no customs save those 
that belong to our own time." 

“Have you a hymn book?" asked Dr. Gordon. 

“Yes—but it is a New Hymnal, prepared on much the same 
plan as our New Bible. We have retained the uplifting and 
inspiring songs, old and new, but have excluded every song 
that abases human nature or places human welfare and happi¬ 
ness at the mercy of God." 

“Do you have baptism?" asked the priest. 

Dr. Partridge hesitated a moment, then replied: 

“The Quakers—a large community, comprising some of the 
best people in the world—do not baptize. Neither do the 
Jews. Will any one here withhold what you call salvation 
from the Quakers and the Jews on that account?" 

“Do you have communion?—The Lord’s Supper?" 

“No." 

“And what else?" asked the priest. 

“We preach a few short sermons, but such as they are they 
are full of stimulation and encouragement to a useful and 
righteous life. On many Sundays we have no sermons at 


322 FLAMES OF FAITH 

all. We prefer work to sermons. We have a dozen ministers 
—none of them ordained—chosen from the congregation, and 
from several others, working as committees with an efficient 
staff of helpers, who keep a record of all the sick and the needy. 
Other committees find work for men out of employment no 
man, no woman, can go hungry in the spirit or the body if 
we can only find their needs. In short, Father O’Hara, ours 
is a religion for sixty millions.” 

Father O’Hara was visibly exasperated. “These sixty mil¬ 
lions of recreant Americans that you speak of they will come 
back when they open their ears and hear the church thundering 
their doom in Hell!” 

“Never, Father O’Hara! The old dogmas are dead!” 

“Father O’Hara is right!” cried Dr. Ambrose. “We ought 
to give the people more Hell!” 

“There’s not enough Hell in modern preaching,” agreed 

Dr. Stanwood. 

“The pulpit has been very remiss in that,” observed Bishop 
Moberly. 

“I’m afraid so,” warily admitted Dr. Gordon. 

“Why accuse ourselves?” demanded Stanwood. “Did not 
all our churches unite to bring Bobby Monday, the great 
evangelist, here in a wonderful union meeting, and did he not 
preach Hell—nothing but Hell—for eight weeks! It was a 
glorious service! I see no ground of reproach for remissness 
on our part.” 

“If there were such a Hell,” said Dr. Partridge, raising his 
hand with dramatic gesture, “we should all feel constrained to 
go there in order to comfort those who cannot escape its 
fires.” 

This statement created a sensation surpassing any other of 
the day. The people in the pews sat bolt upright in conster¬ 
nation, while the newspaper men were themselves astounded. 



FLAMES OF FAITH 323 

“When you go below,” whispered the Times man to the 
World man, “I shall follow to comfort you.” 

The accusers could scarcely believe their ears. 

“What—we—” began the priest, “go to—Hell!” 

“Yes,” said Dr. Partridge, boldly. “Why not? Why not? 
What wife would choose to go to Heaven believing that her 
husband was in Hell?—what mother—what sister? Talk of 
visiting the poor in the slums! How much more imperative 
to join those who are being tortured in Hell!” 

“It is God’s way of dealing with the wicked,” said the priest. 
“And the church apportions Heaven or Hell as she may choose 
in her divine wisdom to do.” 

“A Catholic presumption—that!” shouted Dr. Gordon. 

“There is good scripture for it,” continued Father O’Hara, 
unabashed by the interruption. “ ‘And I will give unto thee 
the keys of the kingdom of Heaven; and whatsoever thou 
shalt bind on earth shall be bound in Heaven; and whatsoever 
thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in Heaven.’ ” 

“That is a palpable interpolation,” cried Dr. Partridge, 
“written long after the death of Jesus. It is the purpose of 
these texts to frighten the people into subjection to ecclesias¬ 
tical authority. You are all striving to coerce men by fear. 
You speak of the fear of death—all of you. Such conceptions 
debase the men who cherish them. They rob religion of its 
charm. They perpetuate the tenets of paganism. There is a 
craven prayer against sudden death—yet what sensible man 
would prefer a lingering illness to a sudden death? We must 
get away from the fear of death. I was in your church re¬ 
cently, Father O’Hara, and I enjoyed your sermon. It called 
men to this very thing I am pleading for—character. It was 
an inspiring exhortation. But your people uttered a prayer 
at that time which disclosed that their faith was founded on 
fear. It was the Hail, Mary!—and then this invocation to 
her: ‘Pray for us now and at the hour of our death!’ They 


324 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


gave this cry not once, but fifty times. We need no interces¬ 
sion at the hour of our death. Let us take our departure from 
life with courage, and confidence, and dignity. No power can 
hurt us after death. No brave man should want a preacher 
or a priest beside him at his death, efcept as a true friend.” 
And then he added: “Do you think that any real man would 
ever consent to enter Heaven knowing that the power that had 
opened its gates to him had closed them upon his son? If I 
found Hell to exist, I should abhor to dwell in the presence 
of its creator!” 

“But right there,” interjected Dr. Ambrose, “does not the 
death of Jesus Christ save us all from Hell?” 

“A hideous doctrine. No! How can the death of any man 
save another from Hell?” 

“He denies that!” cried Dr. Gordon. “The vicarious atone¬ 
ment!” 

“Worse than all that has gone before!” exclaimed Dr. 
Stanwood. 

“If his death saved those who died after him,” asked Dr. 
Partridge, “have you ever stopped to inquire what happened 
to those who died before him?” 

“What, in your view, then, is the meaning of the Crucifix¬ 
ion?” asked Doctor Ambrose. 

“The meaning of the Crucifixion is this,” replied Dr. Part¬ 
ridge, “that Jesus went on with his work against the opposition 
of the established church of his own time until that work 
brought him to his death. His claim to the rulership of a 
spiritual kingdom was perverted Jby his enemies into a political 
aspiration to dominate the Roman state, and he was executed 
under the Roman law as one who falsely claimed to be the 
King of the Jews. The glory of his sacrifice is that he chose 
death willingly as the penalty of his mission, but we must not 
forget that thousands of his followers in every age—as in the 
age of your Spanish Inquisition, Father OHara—have died in 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


325 


agonies equal to his own. In like manner, our soldiers who 
died in France—wounded, in great pain, and away from home 
—suffered agonies which equaled, if they did not exceed, those 
on the cross.” 

“And you find no salvation in the dead Christ?” demanded 
Dr. Stanwood. 

“No,” he answered. “In my travels in Europe I have seen, 
as you have seen, those pictures of a man's body cut open 
and the bleeding heart exposed—and this is a supreme emblem 
of religion! In Europe, we see, nothing but the dead Christ— 
borne through the street, in the pageantry of death. Always 
the crucifix! It is the religious emblem of Continental Eu¬ 
rope, and no man will claim that it has brought salvation to 
the old world—nor strength, nor peace, nor life! When you 
bring it into this country, sixty millions turn from it—nay, 
many more than sixty millions. Now, men are grasping 
at life, and not death. The soul of our race emphasizes the 
living Jesus—our young men and our young women will 
tolerate no other view—he is not on the cross—he is always 
alive, always present, always pleading for the strength, and 
peace, and dignity of human life.” 

“Have you no reverence for the cross?” demanded Bishop 
Moberly. 

“Y es —the cross stands for the highest sentiment in human 
life—the sentiment of sacrifice. If we present it as a senti¬ 
ment of sacrifice, we can conquer the world. But if we present 
it as the salvation of the damned, the world will reject it— 
as it has ever done.” 

Dr. Robinson, the Moderator, now arose, and this impressive 
colloquy took place: 

“Pardon me, Dr. Partridge,” said he, “but I would like to 
ask you a question.” 

“Certainly, sir.” 


326 FLAMES OF FAITH 

$ 

“In both the Old and New Testaments Hell is referred to 
many times.” 

“Yes.” 

“Will you give us your idea of the Scriptural meaning of 
these frequent and specific references?” 

“With pleasure, Mr. President. The word Hell occurs in 
the Old Testament thirty-one times, and in the New twenty- 
two times—a total of fifty-three uses of the word. Whenever 
it is used in the Old Testament—I need not say to scholars 
like yourselves—it is translated from the Hebrew word Sheol, 
and means the grave—the abode of the dead—nothing more.” 

“That’s right—quite right, Dr. Partridge,” cried Bishop 
Moberly. “Our creed says that Christ descended into Hell, 
meaning the grave, and abode there three days.” 

Dr. Robinson was still on his feet. 

“But we have a different source,” said he, “for the word 
Hell in the New Testament?” 

“Yes,” replied Partridge. “In the New Testament the word 
is Gehenna. Gehenna was a suburb of Jerusalem, where they 
burnt the refuse of a great city. Jesus was a lover of meta¬ 
phor, and whenever he spoke of sin, he would turn his eyes 
toward the slow burning fires of Gehenna, and use that name 
to denote remorse and contrition. That’s all there was to it, 
until the theologians took hold of it.” 

One question more,” said the President, in a kindly tone. 
“In writing your book—your motive—was it to save the 
world?” 

“No,” he answered, “it was to save the church.” 

“Thank you,” said the Moderator, sitting down. 

Dr. Stanwood was now thoroughly angry. “If this is not 
heresy,” cried he, “I have lost my sense of smell! Do you 
deny the punishment of sin?” 

“No,” answered the minister. “But why don’t you gentle- 


FLAMES OF FAITH 327 

men get away from all this scarecrow theology, and tell the 
people the truth about Hell?” 

“What is the truth about it?” demanded Dr. Ambrose. 

“Why don’t you tell them that when men give themselves 
up to profligate lives, the powers which they misuse are taken 
away from them; and that these excesses are swiftly followed 
by paralysis and insanity; why don’t you tell them that when 
they become the slaves of drink they carry themselves and 
their families down to poverty and social degradation; that 
when they violate the sanctity of other homes they merit public 
scorn; that when they rob and kill the law shuts them up; 
and for all such offenses the conscience burns with the fires of 
perpetual remorse. It is the law of nature that we suffer 
here for every conscious disobedience to those laws which our 
hearts tell us should be inviolate. These are the pains and 
penalties of a real Hell, and religion is given to us in order 
to save men’and women from the anguish of sin—from broken 
hearts, broken homes, broken lives!” 

Father O’Hara was deeply offended. “These are the va¬ 
garies of sectarianism,” he said. 

“Sectarianism is the present safeguard of the world,” an¬ 
swered the minister. “Let any one sect have control—I care 
not which one it may be—the Episcopal, the Presbyterian, the 
Methodist, the Disciple, yours, Father O’Hara—and we should 
all once more feel ourselves in the grasp of arrogant men, 
trying to control our thoughts about God and eternity.” 

“How much money do you give for the conversion of the 
heathen in foreign lands?” demanded Dr. Ambrose. 

“Not one cent!” 

“Oh, ho! Note that, Mr. Moderator!” 

“Why should we send money abroad to convert the heathen 
to any formulation of faith which all the rest of you will 
denounce as heresy?” cried Dr. Partridge. 

“How do we do that?” asked Bishop Moberly. 


328 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

“Why, in this way,” replied Dr. Partridge. “Dr. Stanwood 
will find a man in Africa whose contented soul he will shake 
by unfolding to him the fear of Hell-” 

“No, no!” interrupted Dr. Stanwood. “We give him the 
hope of Heaven first.” 

Again there was a laugh from the pews, and Dr. Partridge 
accepted the correction amiably. 

“Oh, very well,” he said, smiling at the artless objection 
of his prosecutor. “He makes him a good Presbyterian by 
sprinkling him with water and compelling him to accept thirty- 
nine articles of faith which would baffle Solomon in all his 
wisdom. This converted man a little later falls into the hands 
of Dr. Ambrose, of the Disciples Church, who tells him that 
Dr. Stanwood’s instruction is in error, and that his soul cannot 
possibly be saved until he is baptized by immersion.” 

“Yes—I should have to say that,” broke in Dr. Ambrose. 

“This is done,” continued Dr. Partridge, “and the man 
sleeps in peace until his travels bring him to Father OHara.” 

“And then what happens to the poor man?” asked the 
Rabbi;—and again there was a laugh through the pews. 

“I will ask Father O’Hara to answer that question,” replied 
Dr. Partridge. “What would you say to such a man, Father 
O’Hara?” 

“I could say but one thing,” answered the priest. “I could 
only tell him that the Catholic church does not recognize the 
conversion of any man to error, and that there is no salvation 
for any man—be he heathen or Protestant—outside the Cath¬ 
olic church, save—and save only—by invincible ignorance.” 

There was a gasp of astonishment at this declaration, hear¬ 
ing which the priest stoutly added: 

“I am speaking the very language of our Catholic ecclesias¬ 
tical law on the subject.” 

“And the heathen laughs in derision when you bring him a 


FLAMES OF FAITH 329 

salvation so confusing and so contradictory,” exclaimed Dr. 
Partridge. And then he demanded: 

“How do you get your religious beliefs—all of you?” 

“John Calvin gave us Presbyterianism,” answered Dr. Stan- 
wood, “through the operation of divine truth.” 

“Divine truth—yes,” retorted Father O’Hara, “but divine 
truth was deposited in the bosom of the one ancient and true 
church of Rome by our Lord himself.” 

“But after it became corrupt the Episcopal church reformed 
it,” cried Bishop Moberly. 

“John Wesley gave us the finest conception of this divine 
truth,” testified Dr. Gordon. 

“And Alexander Campbell and Walter Scott brought us 
back to the primitive practices of Christ himself in the restora¬ 
tion of immersion,” said Dr. Ambrose. 

As Dr. Partridge, turning from one to the other, now faced 
Dr. Kaufman, the Jew laughed in a gentle and kindly way, 
and spoke thus: 

“If each is to claim divine truth as the root of his belief, 
our Jewish faith came by the word of God, long before Jesus 
made his advent into the world.” 

“But see where such claims bring us! ’^exclaimed Dr. Part¬ 
ridge. “We have all read those articles in the magazines from 
time to time—Why I am a Presbyterian—a Methodist—a 
Catholic—and so forth. But the fact is that you are a Pres¬ 
byterian, you a Disciple, you a Catholic—because your parents 
were such before you! It is so in ninety-nine cases out of a 
hundred. The Rabbi is a Jew because his parents were such. 
A child born in the south of Ireland is going to be a Catholic. 
A child born in the north of Ireland is going to be a Protestant. 
Let us go farther. In India they are born Mohammedans, in 
China, Buddhists—in Japan, Shintos. Has divine truth any¬ 
thing to do with it? No! The parents get these beliefs f*;om 
their ancestors and hand them down to their children. The 


330 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


correct answer to my question would be—I am thus and so 
because my father and mother were such! But Lessing, in a 
great book, warns us that ‘the Christian religion is not a thing 
that ought to be received on trust from one's parents.’ And 
Lessing was right. No, gentlemen—so long as religion is 
founded upon belief—instead of conduct—we can never have 
peace!” 

“But how would you dispose of a Mohammedan if you don’t 
convert him?” inquired Father O’Hara. 

“I would give him the teachings of Jesus as to character—as 
to righteousness and human service—and leave him in his 
Mohammedanism. I solemnly believe that a Mohammedan can 
be a Christian—in the sense that Jesus meant it—and still be 
a Mohammedan, and that a Jew can be a Christian and remain 
a consistent Jew—even an orthodox Jew, for Jesus was an 
orthodox Jew—and he never ceased to be such.” 

“And you would not demand any belief?” 

“No—none whatever.” 

“But Jesus established his church and declared that the 
gates of Hell should not prevail against it,” insisted the priest. 

“It is bootless to urge that he ever established any church 
in the pattern of magnificence—or in the spirit of dictation— 
which prevails today,” answered Dr. Partridge. “The seat of 
his church was always in the living heart, and never at Rome 
or Jerusalem. His church was never set down in any building. 
He at all times turned away from form and splendor, and he 
took no part in processions, rich garments, candles, and con¬ 
vocations. They were no part of his gospel. And in the Book 
of Revelation, where all essential things are disclosed, we find 
no temple there.” 

“Then your boasted new church is not fired with any mis¬ 
sionary spirit?” cried Dr. Gordon. 

“To convert the world to creeds? No!” he answered. “You 
are trying to convert Japan to creeds. I have a report of one 


FLAMES OF FAITH 331 

hundred and forty-eight conversions in Japan in seven years. 
Yet Tokio alone has a population of more than two million. 
In fifty years the total conversions in Japan—Roman Catholic, 
Greek Catholic, and Protestants of every kind—is one hundred 
and thirty thousand—in fifty years! At that rate the world 
will be destroyed by its own gases before you break through 
the outer crust of Japan’s conservatism. Japan is one of the 
most enlightened nations on the earth. She will never accept 
our religion until we give her a better model of character in 
our own national life. Do you think that any other nation 
would accept the religion of Spain after beholding thewcharacter 
of the national life of Spain? Or of Portugal? And look at 
China! In three hundred years you have converted four 
hundred thousand Protestants and two million Catholics—out 
of a population of four hundred millions. Just think—only a 
little more than one-half of one per cent. That is hardly a 
pin scratch! You have never touched her heart! Who in 
this presence will say that the exalted morality of Confucius 
is inferior to the doctrine of infant damnation, or the adoration 
of the saints, or the worship of the Virgin Mary? When you 
carry these faiths abroad—all of them being disputed among 
yourselves at home—is it singular that intelligent foreigners 
should tell you with scorn that you are trying to make them 
believe a system which your own people are rejecting?” 

He paused, looking from one to the other and went on: 
“That does not look like winning the world! And while that 
has been going on you have lost these sixty millions at home. 
While your missionaries go forth to fight on foreign fields, the 
walls of their citadel are crumbling behind them. Is there not 
something wrong with the method?” 

Dr. Gordon was impressed—indeed they all were. 

“What is your remedy?” he asked. 

“We aim to give these people a religion without a creed. 
We give money to teach them the power of righteousness, we 


332 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


teach them to work, when necessary we feed them and clothe 
them, and then we build hospitals and schools among them, 
and we try to make their lives clean and decent and better in 
every way. You will not be pleased when I tell you that we 
do not at the start attempt to build any churches among them. 
These other countries should in like manner be taught to rise 
from ignorance so that they may lead intelligent and useful 
lives. ,> 

“But their souls,” pressed Dr. Stanwood, “their souls, that 
are going by the million to perdition for the lack of these 
dogmatic truths?” 

“There is no perdition for an ignorant soul but ignorance,” 
answered the minister. 

“Eh—how about Heaven?” inquired Dr. Gordon. “Have 
you retained Heaven in your plan?” 

“Yes—its kingdom—always in the living heart. But Heaven 
will last as long as there are mothers to call us there.” 

“And this,” cried the priest, “this is Humanity and the 
Church!” 

“Is there in your mind,” said Dr. Stanwood, as in a last 
appeal, “is there no hope for Christianity as a religion accept¬ 
able to the whole world?” 

“Yes,” replied Dr. Partridge, “when Christianity frees itself 
from the superstition and paganism which has cursed it in 
Europe, wipes out the supernatural, relinquishes a slavish ad¬ 
herence to literal interpretation, gives the world a society based 
on perfect character, times its step to modern progress, devotes 
its resources to human service, establishes its seat in the hearts 
of men, and puts an end to war, all men will accept it. Japan 
is hungry for a Christianity like that—so is China—so is 
India—so, indeed, is Europe. And so, above all, is America. 
But America must convert herself to such a system before she 
can convert the world.” 


FLAMES OF FAITH 333 

“Why do you place the burden of this salvation upon 
America?” asked Dr. Stanwood. 

“Because,” he answered, “America has been given a two¬ 
fold mission. First, to establish liberty throughout the land, 
unto all the inhabitants thereof; and then, to establish liberty 
throughout the world, unto all the inhabitants thereof. Ameri¬ 
ca is great, rich and generous. She is free from bigotry in a 
large measure when compared with the other countries in the 
world. Indeed, she is bigoted only by the ancient prejudices 
and bizarre traditions which are brought into her national life 
by a constant immigration. But her spirit is the spirit of 
liberty, always fresh, always strong, always youthful. Take 
care that we do not crush that spirit by the forces of darkness 
which have been discussed here today! Other countries are 
rotting away because of the deadly poison of decaying systems 
which are no longer suited to human necessities. America is 
constantly broadening her conception of life. Other countries 
have tried to conquer their neighbors by the power of armies 
and navies. Without a thought of conquest, America will be 
beloved in every country in the world—if we use her moral 
power for peace, and good will, and liberty of opinion, and 
liberty of action.” 

“Mr. Moderator,” said Dr. Stanwood, turning toward the 
presiding officer, “we could not have presented the teaching 
of Dr. Partridge’s book more comprehensively than he has 
done in the declarations to which you have listened in this 
examination. He has denied the faith of our fathers. We ask 
a judgment on the evidence.” 

“Is there anything more to be said?” asked the Moderator, 
rising. 

The accusing ministers shook their heads. 

“Nothing,” said they. 

“Dr. Partridge?” asked the Moderator. 

Dr. Partridge spoke a last word in defense of his position. 


334 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


“Oh, my friends,” said he, “I know only too well that I 
have not pleased you. Yet I would not wilfully wound the 
spirit of any man who walks upon this earth. You demand 
to know why I have written my book? I answer, because I 
behold the church rapidly disintegrating, yet in seeming igno¬ 
rance of its decay. Because sixty million Americans have 
broken away from it. Because twenty-two million young men 
have refused to adhere to it. Because many of the young men 
and young women at our schools and colleges will hold no 
fellowship with it. Because it has never awakened to its true 
mission of promoting peace and good will throughout the world, 
but has debased itself—nay, I will say, has debauched itself— 
by clinging to forms of belief instead of devoting its energies 
to the active service of mankind. And I have written my book 
with the hope that I may redeem the church from going down 
to perdition. 

“You say that I have shattered everything. If that be true, 
I have shattered everything in order to show that with every¬ 
thing shattered we must still come back to the teachings of 
Jesus as the only true basis of civilization and progress. If 
this trial has left us a shattered ruin of faith, I go forth to 
rebuild on that ruin a new faith, with Jesus Christ as the 
leader—this time not of warring sects—but of a world united 
for righteousness and service. You, who accuse me, are making 
a substance out of a shadow, and you are trying to frighten 
the world with thai shadow. But it is not a wicked world. It 
is not a lost world—not a dying world. It has ceased to be 
medieval. It has pulled itself away from crucifixes. It has 
pulled itself away from dead Christs. It is grasping eagerly 
at life and at all things that are living. It is a very good world, 
full of lovingkindness. It concerns itself constantly with all 
manner of good works. It does not need the creeds that we 
have been agonizing over here today. The world—the beauti¬ 
ful world—it does not need to be converted, in your sense. 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


335 


“Turn these two hundred and fifty thousand church build¬ 
ings into service stations, open all the week, and you will 
solve the problem. It is a sin against God to keep all that 
capital tied up in magnificent isolation, while the poor go 
hungry and unclothed. Strike the church names from your 
buildings. Recall at once all missionaries from the foreign 
field, and send in their places doctors, educators, and trade 
instructors. You must go to this world—it needs your sym¬ 
pathy, your resources, your organization. And this mission 
of the church—the whole church and all of its branches— 
yours, Father O’Hara, yours, Bishop Moberly, yours, Dr. 
Stanwood, Dr. Gordon, and Dr. Ambrose—and certainly yours, 
also, my dear Rabbi Kaufman—relieved from arrogance and 
dogmatism and medieval beliefs—is grander today than in any 
of the spectacular epochs of the past centuries. For the 
church, becoming once more the servant and not the master 
of mankind, is to find her seat in the great heart of humanity, 
The Church in the Living Heart! And over all will be God 
—God in the human heart!—at last dominating his Kingdom 
of Heaven.” 

Dr. Partridge ceased, and there was a prolonged burst of 
applause from the pews. 

“There will be a recess,” announced Dr. Robinson, “while 
the Moderators go into conference on the evidence.” 

The three Moderators walked gravely from the auditorium, 
and the organist played softly the Intermezzo from “Cavalleria 
Rusticana.” 


CHAPTER LXV 


The great conflict between the accusers and the accused, 
calling forth in brilliant and eloquent controversy the best 
intellect and dialectics which the American pulpit could pro¬ 
duce, had suddenly subsided. The hush of silence which had 
fallen upon the spellbound audience now gave place to a noisy 
hum of conversation, and the men and women who had fol¬ 
lowed the utterances of the distinguished debaters with almost 
breathless interest began to venture their opinions as to the 
probabilities of the judgment, swayed doubtless by their 
sympathies for or against the audacious defendant. Many of 
those present who took his words as words only were ready 
to declare for his conviction as a heretic, whose teaching was 
dangerous to the peace and dignity of the church. Others 
whose minds had perceived beyond his bold declarations a 
mighty spiritual conception which brought him much nearer 
to God than could the verbal creeds which he was assailing, 
declared their absolute faith in him as a prophet of divine 
truth. One party could anticipate no other verdict than that 
of guilty. The other party confidently predicted his trium¬ 
phant acquittal. 

The newspaper men treated the entire performance with 
merely professional interest. It was a front page story, and 
its outcome was only a detail of the incident itself. Most 
of them idly watched the crowd, and waited for the Moderators 
to come in. 

As Dr. Partridge stepped into the aisle to receive the con¬ 
gratulations which his friends offered on his able' defense 

336 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


337 


Arthur Carrington, Barbara, and Alan Carlyle came forward, 
and one after the other embraced him. Beside them, but keep¬ 
ing a little in the background, was Mary Ballantyne. The 
preacher instantly forgot his own troubles. 

“You were great, old man!” cried Carrington, in his exu¬ 
berant affection. “Your fight here—against these—these 
powers of darkness—ha, ha, ha!—is going, to make you trium¬ 
phant in your purpose to Americanize the religion of the 
Americans.” 

Alan Carlyle took his turn. 

“You were magnificent, John,” he exclaimed. “You have 
truly laid the ground for a world religion .” 1 

Barbara seized his hands. 

“You were wonderful,” she exclaimed. 

Then Mary came forward and placed her hand on his arm, 
but said nothing. 

And just then the Human Skyscraper came into the church 
and pushed her way through the crowded aisles until she 
found herself near the front. She was still dressed in her pro¬ 
fessional garb of the circus, with a coat which only partly 
concealed her gaudy costume. Her face was full of trouble. 

“The Human Skyscraper!” exclaimed Carrington. 

“Is Dr. Partridge here?” she demanded, casting her glances 
on all sides. 

Dr. Stanwood, scandalized by this intrusion, signaled to his 
fellow-accusers. “Human Skyscrapers—and false teachers— 
go together!” he said. 

Dr. Partridge heard the sneering charge. “When they are in 
sin and tears,” said he, “they don’t come to the church for 
help.” 

The girl spoke again. 

“Harry—you know— th^ man that followed my balloon— 
was shot and killed last night.” 

“By whom?” 


338 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

“By a policemen—while trying to escape—burglary. Oh— 
it is terrible to die that way! ” 

Dr. Partridge took her hand. 

“I am very sorry for you,” he said. 

She handed him his watch. “He took this watch from your 
pocket yesterday, but I got it away from him before he went 
out last night.” 

I grieve, as you do, that he could come to such an end.” 

“I am sorr y for you, and I’m sorry for him,” said Car¬ 
rington. 

“And now—I’ve done all I could to make his peace,” she 
continued. “But he paid big for it.” 

“Yes—he paid big for it,” repeated Dr. Partridge, wiping 
the tears from his face. 

“And me ” she said, while a wild sort of despair haunted 
her face, there’s nothing for me to do but go back to the 
show! If he was a burglar—I loved him! He was the only 
man—yes, the only man—that ever came into my life. And, 
oh—I can’t go back to that manager!” 

Father O’Hara, who with the other clerical witnesses, had 
listened to this narrative as it was unfolding itself in terms 
of dramatic intensity, now stepped forward. 

“Why—we have a place for such women,” he said. “The 
House of the Good Shepherd—where she will be restrained 
from falling again into an evil life.” 

“No, no!” she cried. “I don’t want to be locked up no 
place! I want to live in the sunlight! ” 

“If she is locked up in some way,” said Bishop Moberly, 
“it might be well for her.” 

“Send her to the Salvation Army,” advised Dr. Stanwood. 

“We have a Rescue Home for women like her,” ventured 
Dr. Gordon. 

“I know of no institution for such women, at this moment,” 


FLAMES OF FAITH 339 

said Dr. Ambrose, “but she ought to be restrained from con¬ 
taminating other people.” 

And as the ministers, one after the other, stood condemning 
her, the Human Skyscraper shrunk before them in turn. 

“Oh, they make me afraid!” she cried. “They make me 
afraid! ” 

With her frightened face turned toward her accusers, she 
sank on the floor before Dr. Partridge, grasping his knees, 
while he sheltered her with his hand against the ministers 
who pointed at her the finger of scorn. With one hand upon 
the sorrowing womans head, and the other raised in solemn 
appeal, he cried out: 

“He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first 
stone!” 

The effect was electrical. The ministers slunk back, abashed 
as if Jesus himself had rebuked them, while the great assem¬ 
blage looking on, seemed transported to an environment of 
twenty centuries ago. 

“She needs sympathy and encouragement,” said Carrington. 

“If she* will go home with me,” said Rabbi Kaufman, “my 
wife will be’ glad to take care of her.” 

Dr. Partridge, taking the girl’s hand, and raising her to her 
feet, spoke again. 

“There was something wrong with the young man’s brain— 
I’m sure of that.” 

“Yes—that’s right,” she cried. “There was something 
wrong with his brain. I think it was the war made him 
that way. There was some good things in him.” 

“His soul is in peace,” said Dr. Partridge. 

The girl looked up, and studied his face, then asked: 

“His soul—what’s that?” 

“The divine spirit that was in him,” he answered. 

“Have I a soul?” she inquired. 

“Yes—a very beautiful soul.” 


340 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


“Do you know, sir—Dr. Partridge,” she asked, “that ever 
since I first saw you in the park yesterday—I have wanted to 
be near you—wanted to touch your sleeve—and have you look 
at me with your kind eyes?” 

“Well,” he answered, “you may come to me always, my dear 
child, when I can help you.” 

“I wanted to break up my affair with Harry,” she continued, 
“as soon as I heard your voice.” 

And then her tears came again. 

“Must I go back to—that show?” she asked in a tone of 
suppressed terror. 

“No—no!” he assured her. “You shall be a Human Sky¬ 
scraper no longer.” 

Mary Ballantyne came up and kissed her. “I want to be 
your sister,” she said. Then Barbara kissed her, and said: 
“And I want to be your sister.” 

She looked upon them all with a feeling of awe and wonder. 

“Me—a sister!” she exclaimed. “I never had no sister. 
I never lived in nobody’s house. I never had no home.” 

“Then you shall have both home and sister now,” said 
Barbara. 

“Oh, that will be just like Heaven,” she whispered. And 
then the lovingkindness that had come so suddenly into her 
life seemed to bring modesty with it, and for the first time 
she draped her cloak around her so as to hide her legs. 


CHAPTER LXVI 


Upon an exclamation from the audience the group turned 
their eyes forward and beheld the three Moderators returning 
into the auditorium. There was instant but suppressed excite¬ 
ment, and the newspaper men prepared themselves to get the 
judgment and rush out to tell it to the world. 

“Now—we shall have the decision,” said Dr. Partridge, in a 
quiet voice to his anxious friends. 

When the Moderators had seated themselves at the table. 
Dr. Robinson tapped twice with his gavel. Then, while all 
three stood up, and with great dignity and solemnity, he 
spoke thus: 

“The Moderators agree unanimously that the Reverend 
Doctor John William Partridge, in having written and pub¬ 
lished his book, Humanity and the Church, is guilty of heresy 
against the teachings of the Holy Bible, and we condemn him 
to a forfeiture of his standing in the ministry of the Evangelical 
Church.” 

The Moderators then walked slowly from the church. If 
anyone had looked toward the press table, he would only have 
found that the reporters had vanished from sight. The Asso¬ 
ciated Press man alone remained to chronicle the end of 
the story. 

Dr. Partridge stood for a moment like one who had been 
struck in the heart. 

“I am found guilty of heresy,” he said. “Guilty of heresy! 
Out of the church!” 

Rabbi Kaufman seized his hand. “I beg you to accept my 
sincere sympathy, Dr. Partridge,” he said. 

34i 


342 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


The others in his group gathered around him, but did not 
speak in audible words. His wandering eyes instantly caught 
sight of Mary Ballantyne, and a sympathy came from her 
which gave him strength. 

Dr. Stanwood raised his eyes to Heaven, and then said in 
a tone which indicated the sincerity of his innermost con¬ 
viction: 

“This is the vindication of divine truth.” The witnesses 
who had been on his side nodded their solemn assent to this 
opinion. 

“And yet,” continued Dr. Partridge, his voice regaining its 
firmness and his face resuming its tranquil beauty, “I do 
not feel any aloofness from God. I seem to feel more than 
ever the sheltering power of his everlasting arms.” 

There was a moment of silence. Then Barbara asked him: 

“What shall you do about this verdict, Dr. Partridge?” 

His reply was instant and definite. 

“I shall once more become a missionary.” 

His hearers were startled. 

“A missionary?” they asked. 

“Yes.” 

And then, trying to locate his thought, they pressed him 
thus: 

“To Africa?” from Barbara. 

“To India?” from Carrington. 

“To China?” from Alan Carlyle. 

“No,” he said. “To America.” 

And all ejaculated: 

“America!” 

“It is the world against the church,” he said. “These sta¬ 
tistics have been increased by the verdict of this morning. 
There are now sixty million and one souls outside the church 
in America. The time has come when the world must convert 
the church. And that is why I shall become a missionary.” 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


343 


“What shall you do, Doctor?” asked Carrington. 

“I am going to ask men and women throughout the world 
to love one another,” he said. “When I find parents and their 
children estranged, I am going to ask them to forgive. When 
I find a husband and wife destroying home and children 
through jealous passion, I am going to ask them to forgive. 
When I find poor fellows languishing in prisons long after the 
first offenses which brought them there have been forgotten, 
I’m going to ask the pardoning power to forgive. When I 
find mobs of workmen arrayed against employers, I’m going 
to ask them—workmen and employers—to forgive. When I 
find young women held up to scorn because they have strayed 
from rectitude, I’m going to ask society to forgive. When I 
find nations preparing to slaughter each other in bloody war, 
I’m going to ask them to forgive. Let China—India—Japan 
alone! There is too much work to do here in our own 
country.” 

His speech was making a deep impression upon his hearers. 
Even the witnesses who had accused him were listening with 
close attention. Mary Ballantyne never moved her eyes from 
his face. 

“You are trying a novel experiment, Dr. Partridge,” com¬ 
mented the Disciple minister. 

“Oh, no,” he answered, cheerily. “It is just the old gospel 
of Jesus, relieved of the millstone of theology, and freed from 
the dictation of the church.” 

“When will you begin this modern crusade, Dr. Partridge?” 
asked Carrington. 

“At our meeting tonight at Carnegie Hall,” he replied. 

“But you have broken with the whole system,” suggested 
the Episcopalian. 

“I am going to take for my captain and leader,” he answered, 
“a man who attacked the church and its creeds because the 
people in the world outside were starving for the bread of 


344 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


life. He was accused of heresy by the Doctors of Divinity, 
and tried, and found guilty, and executed—the greatest heretic 
of all times!” 

The Catholic priest ruminated, and spoke. 

“I don’t seem to recall such a character from history,” he 
said. 

“His name?” urged the other clergymen. 

“His name was—Jesus!” 

They were all caught, as in a trap. 

“His was the bravest sacrifice in human history,” continued 
the convicted man, “because he tried to put a life of service 
in the place of dogmatic theology—and failed.” 

“Yet,” said Carrington, “his failure is bringing a glorious 
victory to humanity.” 

“Yes,” answered Partridge, “by establishing his Kingdom 
of Heaven, as he described it, with its seat in the human heart.” 
And then, raising his hand with great solemnity, he uttered 
these words as a challenge to them all: “And now I ask, who 
will leave his creeds behind, and go out with me this night 
to serve and to save—my sixty millions?” 

“It is a wonderful inspiration!” cried Carrington. “Barbara 
and I will go with you to the end.” 

“Yes, indeed, Dr. Partridge,” assented Barbara. 

“And I ask a place beside you,” said Alan Carlyle. 

The poor little figure of the Human Skyscraper crept close 
to him. 

“Will you let me go?” she said. 

Mary Ballantyne just looked upon him, and drew closer 
to him. 

Dr. Stanwood, the chief of his accusers, folded his arms 
haughtily. 

“Why,” demanded he, “should loyal churchmen follow you 
and your sixty millions?” 


FLAMES OF FAITH 345 

“And what curious gospel will you preach,” asked Father 
O’Hara, “after all that you have denied?” 

Dr. Partridge raised his hand to High Heaven, and answered 
them: 

“The gospel which he preached. I have come to heal the 
brokenhearted. For I was an hungered, and ye gave me 
meat. I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink. I was a stranger, 
and ye took me in. Naked, and ye clothed me. I was sick, 
and ye visited me. I was in prison, and ye came unto me.” 

“A gospel,” commented Carrington, “which seems to have 
been greatly neglected through all these centuries.” 

Rabbi Kaufman’s face shone as with an inner light. 

“This is a new prophet,” said the Jew, “calling Israel again 
to righteousness. In the spirit and the flesh, I shall be with 
you tonight.” 

The group of accusing ministers had been standing to one 
side in all the arrogance of their untouched orthodoxy. But 
there were signs of an emotional change in their ranks, and 
Dr. Gordon, the Methodist, after a faltering moment, walked 
slowly over to the convicted heretic, and grasped his hand. 

“You are really setting up something which looks to me 
very much like a Methodist Church,” he said. 

Bishop Moberly was hesitating, but now he, too, came over 
and extended his hand. 

“While you have seemed to attack the system,” said he, 
“you are, in fact, giving utterance to the constant aspiration 
of the Episcopal Church.” 

Dr. Ambrose could not withstand the appeal to his con¬ 
science. Walking over, with outstretched hand, he exclaimed: 

“Leaving out immersion, I recognize in these new doctrines 
the ideal of the Disciples Church.” 

Dr. Stanwood’s face showed the deep pain of his position. 
He, the victor, stood in triumph beside his victim, yet it was 
the victor who was vanquished. With a slow step, he ap- 


346 FLAMES OF FAITH 

proached the man whom he had driven into a corner, and 
seized his hand. 

“While I regret the notable absence of dogma,” he said, 
“the thing that you have described is in its essence pure 
Presbyterianism.” 

They all turned their eyes upon Father O’Hara, who until 
now had stood proud and unyielding, with his face averted 
from them. The Catholic priest made the sign of the cross 
upon his breast, then started, as if to walk away. Pausing, 
he turned his head and looked upon them, then gave another 
look away, and another look toward them. Then, after a 
mental struggle which carried him far beyond the creed of 
his church, far beyond the teachings of Maynooth College, 
and far beyond the traditions of his family and his life, and 
which shook his secret soul to its foundation, he turned his full 
front toward them, and with both hands extended toward 
Doctor Partridge, he said: 

“I too shall join with you tonight.” 


CHAPTER LXVII 


When the ministers had left him, Partridge turned his 
eyes in search of Mary Ballantyne, but she, too, had disap¬ 
peared, together with the Carringtons and Alan Carlyle. Find¬ 
ing himself alone, Partridge sought his apartment and threw 
himself upon a couch. The reaction from the events of the 
great trial now stirred his sentient nature to its depths, and 
a flood of tears burst from his heart and caused his strong 
frame to shake with emotion. 

Had he indeed revolted from God? Had he indeed denied 
the faith—the real faith of a Christian? Had he indeed been 
disloyal to Jesus as his leader? Had he, by his teaching and 
example, destroyed anything that was essential to a religious 
civilization? Was it a just judgment for these men—bound 
inextricably in the armor of their ancient bigotries—to find 
him guilty of heresy and expel him from the church of his 
parents? 

No! Over and over again he inwardly shouted No! Over 
and over again he declared to himself that he had struck at 
a medieval institution which had shown itself in the greatest 
tests and in the most imperative emergencies to be wholly 
without influence or power in the gathered agonies of the 
world. 

He fell upon his knees and poured out his surcharged soul 
to God. His prayer became fervent and appealing, as it had 
been in the first days of his mission in Africa. Though he 
was now out of the organized church, he found himself in 
reciprocal tenderness, face to face with God. In the vision 
of the ideal life, as described in the Book of Revelation, there 

347 


348 


FLAMES OF FAITH 

was no church there. And now he felt a wonderful truth 
coming upon him—he felt that in spite of his turning from the 
organized church, in spite of his turning from the ancient 
creeds God was with him and in him—now, at this very 
moment of his anguish—God was with him. No organized 
church could expel God from his soul. And Jesus would never 
reproach him, for he felt that the comforting spirit of Jesus 
was now beside him, and that God and Christ were sustaining 
him in his trouble. He could feel no sense of sin—of pre¬ 
sumptuous judgment—in what he had done; there was no feel¬ 
ing of repentance, no desire to recant from a single phrase that 
he had uttered. It dissipated all his doubts now to feel the 
conviction that God had existed long before there was any 
church, long before there was any Bible, and long before 
there was any tradition, and that God must continue to domi¬ 
nate the eternal heart of man, even if these other things van¬ 
ished forever. He declared anew his purpose to serve all man¬ 
kind as his brethren, to teach them the righteousness of God, 
and the lovingkindness of Jesus, and he vowed to Heaven 
that he would never perplex their souls with the dogmas and 
the superstitions against which he had battled that day. 
When he had thus for an hour communed in familiar inter¬ 
course with the Majesty of Heaven, he finished his prayer in 
perfect peace. 

“° God!” he cried, “watch over us all, protect and guide 
and guard us all; bring these accusing men once more to my 
side in confidence and affection, that we may all work together 
in redeeming this beautiful world from sin and hate, from war 
and blood; let thy righteousness glorify our country and 
strengthen our lives, and let thy lovingkindness transform this 
world into a paradise where all thy people may strive mightily 
m human service. Let thy everlasting arms uphold me in 
the great work that has been laid upon me! And give—unto 
her—oh, give—unto her—dear Father—thy richest blessings!” 


CHAPTER LXVIII 


The great meeting was held on the night of the trial, and 
resolved itself into a personal triumph for John Partridge. 
The audience sympathized with him to the last man, and when 
it came his turn to speak there were tumults of acclamation. 
The program which had been prepared by Arthur Carrington, 
calling for a more efficient democracy, and for a nation to 
be made righteous through character and not through law, was 
followed by all the speakers, and added a new chapter to the 
thinking life of the nation. Carrington proved himself a civic 
leader, and people began to talk of him for high office. 

The next day Partridge resumed his work in his library. He 
wrote a letter to Old Skinflint, telling him that he would be 
glad to learn whether he could in any way help Mazie in her 
necessities, beyond the regular allowance which he had always 
remitted to her. When he had dispatched this letter, he sat 
down at his desk to take up other work. 

There was a knock at the door. 

“Come in,” he called. And Mary Ballantyne entered the 
room. 

Partridge sprang to his feet in an excess of joy. 

“Mary!” he cried. “You left the church yesterday before 
I could speak with you again.” 

“I felt that you should be alone—-until you could think it 
out. That is why I left you. But you have not been out of 
my thoughts—no, not for one moment.” 

“And your spirit has been with me?” 

“Every moment,” she answered. “Oh, John, you were 
magnificent! So quick, so well prepared, so resourceful, so 

349 


350 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


courageous! To say all those things—that every one believes 
—but every one is afraid to say—and say them so patiently 
and so eloquently—-and with so much scholarship! Oh—you 
were wonderful!” 

“But it availed nothing against their bigotry.” 

“Oh, yes, it did. Your greatest triumph was the final 
appeal that brought them to your side.” 

“After they had convicted me?” 

“Yes—that they should then follow you.” 

“But where are you stopping?” 

“At the Plaza.” 

“And you are going to see America.” 

“No, John, dear.” 

“Why?—your first trip—why?” 

Her eyes filled with tears. 

“There is no America—there is no England—there is no 
earth, or sea, or sky—any more.” 

And then she laughed and wiped her tears away. 

He stood aloof, as if he could not trust himself to come 
closer to her. 

“I have tried to break this tie—with Mazie,” he said. “But 
she will not consent.” 

“But cannot you get the divorce, John,—by applying 
for it?” 

“Only by accusing her—and that I would not do.” 

“Oh—you beautiful man! I am with you in that resolve. 
Let us stand upon the higher ground, dearest.” 

“Oh, my darling!” he said. “I hoped you would forget— 
and find someone-” 

“Hush! Don't say that! There is no one else in the 
world!” 

“What are you going to do, Mary?” 

“I am going back, tomorrow. Back home.” 

“You just came for the trial?” 



FLAMES OF FAITH 


351 


“Yes—I couldn’t possibly stay away.” 

“To be with me?” 

“Yes—beside you—always beside you when you are in 
trouble.” 

“Bless you, Mary. You were beside me in France.” 

“Yes.” Her tears came again. “You were dead, John. In 
spite of what you said at the trial—about no dead person ever 
coming back—you were dead! Your body was cold; and 
when I put my arms around you, and called out to you, you 
came back into your body. And I left you. Then, when you 
wrote me that these wolves were howling on your track, I came 
again—just to be near you. And now that you are safe—in 
the affections of the people with whom you work—I shall 
leave you again.” 

“Oh, Mary, you are indeed—my guardian angel! When 
you called me back—there in France—my soul had gone out 
—and I was looking down upon you—through roofs and walls 
which had somehow dissolved—so that all that I could see was 
you—all that I could hear was you. I came back—to be 
with you!” 

“You will see me—tomorrow—before I sail?” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“Then I must go. I will come here tomorrow at eleven.” 

“Yes. Mary! But may I not go to the dock?” 

“No—I could not stand it! To sail away—and leave you 
there! ” 

“You will be here tomorrow, then?” 

“Yes—at eleven.” 

And she was gone. 

Partridge could not understand it. They loved. They were 
both breaking their hearts. Yet Mazie stood between them. 
Whom God had joined together? But God had not joined 
them together—and they had been parted for years—parted 
because God had not joined them together. He was willing 


352 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


to seek relief from that irksome tie by the means which a 
merciful law had provided. But it was Mazie—the offending 
one—who prevented him from doing so. On the morrow he 
would say good-bye to Mary, and this time the parting must 
be an eternal one. 


CHAPTER LXIX 


Partridge was in his study the next morning an hour ahead 
of the appointed time. He had wished to see Mary in the 
afternoon and in the evening of the day before—had telephoned 
for permission—but she had answered with a sad, “No, dear— 
wait until tomorrow.” So he could only wait through a rest¬ 
less night for the morning to bring her to him once more; and 
then she was to come only to leave him forever. 

Exactly at eleven he heard her step in the hall, and ran 
to the door. She came in, dressed for the steamer, in a smart 
fur-trimmed suit and a small hat of blue. Her cheeks bore 
the rosy tint of health, and she greeted him with an enchant¬ 
ing smile. 

“I came in your car,” she said. “Thank you for sending it. 
Your chauffeur is waiting outside. I am to stay just ten 
minutes.” 

He seized her hands. 

“Ten minutes,” he repeated. “If you will listen to my 
heart, you will hear it pleading with you to remain in America.” 

“No, dear—do not think of that again. You are a creature 
too noble for that—too noble to have me near you—when we 
cannot give ourselves to each other. Every woman must 
protect the man she loves. And I can protect you only by 
going away. Rut I love you—oh, I love you, John.” 

“Then stay here-” 

“That is impossible, dear. I cannot bear to be with you, 
and yet apart—that makes me miserable—while to go home 
is equally wretched.” 


353 



354 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


He dropped her hands and drew away from her. “Oh, Mary 
—this renunciation is the most bitter thing that has ever hap¬ 
pened in my life. I cannot give you up—I cannot let you go.” 

“John—I love you!” 

“Mary—you will not go away!” 

“Yes, John,” she answered. “But hear me say this—the 
last word that I shall ever speak to you in this life. You have 
never kissed me. I want you to take me in your arms—and 
kiss me!” 

Before he could reach her side, there was a loud knock at 
the door, and the chauffeur entered hurriedly. 

“We must go, sir,” said he, “if the lady would catch the 
boat. We have but thirty minutes, sir, and I have her trunk 
with me* to be put on board.” 

Mary turned and ran out of the room without speaking a 
word. John stepped to the window and saw his automobile 
driven toward the west side where lay the steamer. As the 
car turned the corner, Mary waved her hand, and disappeared. 

She had departed—departed, in so far as he was concerned, 
into eternity. He paced the floor, and saw before him his life 
and work, unlightened by a woman’s love. 

“Come in!” he shouted, as someone knocked at the door. 

It was Old Skinflint, who came shuffling into the room. 
Partridge greeted him warmly and tried to forget his trouble 
in welcoming his old friend. 

“How do you do, Mr. Partridge,” said the merchant, extend¬ 
ing his hand. “I got your letter last night—just as I was 
going to bed. And I says to my wife—I says—‘there’s some¬ 
thing tells me that I should see Mr. Partridge right quick and 
tell him what’s happened.’ And she agreed with me. So I 
gets up this morning and catches the five o’clock train and 
comes here, and I could have seen you an hour ago only I had 
trouble finding your office. But here I am, and I’m mighty 
glad to see you again, and you lookin’ so well, Mr. Partridge.” 


FLAMES OF FAITH 355 

“That’s mighty good of you to take all that trouble, 
Mr.-” 

“No—don’t mister me, Mr. Partridge. Call me the old 
name. It makes me feel to home .’ 7 

“Old Skinflint!” 

“That’s right, Mr. Partridge.” And they both laughed 
heartily. 

“Well, sit down, Old Skinflint, and tell me all about things 
at Radmoor.” 

“Well, Mr. Partridge, that’s what I come here to see you 
about. Now, here’s what happened. Jim Larkin has been 
drinkin’ something fearful—drunk, and carrying on—and 
quarreling all the time. Been arrested half-a-dozen times for 
beating his wife.” 

“Poor creature!” cried Partridge. “I wish I could take her 
away from him!” 

“But you can’t do nothing, Mr. Partridge. That’s what I 
come here to tell you about. Night before last Jim come home 
drunk, and him and Mazie quarreled as usual. She was as 
drunk—that time—as he was. Well, they kept at it, until she 
throws something at him, and then he grabs a revolver and 
shoots her—and she’s dead.” 

And just then Old Skinflint thought that Bedlam had broken 
loose, for he saw the man in front of him spring up from his 
chair, seize his hat, and rush madly out of the room without 
ever saying one word of explanation. The startled merchant 
tried to follow him to the hall, but his flying friend had dis¬ 
appeared. Then, going to the window in his bewilderment, he 
beheld Partridge springing into a taxicab and madly gesticu¬ 
lating to the driver to make haste. 

“I’ll be goshdarned!” said Old Skinflint. “The man’s gone 
clean crazy!” 



CHAPTER LXX 


“Officer —we’re trying to catch a steamer. We have only 
eight minutes to reach the dock. For God’s sake, let us pass!” 

“Go ahead, then.” 

And Partridge’s taxicab sped across Fifth Avenue. 

“Drive faster!” he cried to the chauffeur. “Fifty dollars 
for you if you catch the boat.” 

“I’ll do my best, sir,” yelled back the chauffeur. 

The horn was tooted constantly, and enraged pedestrians 
sprang out of the way, right and left. Other cars pulled up 
close to the curb to escape collision, and onward they rushed, 
while one policeman after another took the license number for 
the police court the next morning. As the taxicab drove up 
to the dock Partridge handed a roll of bills to the driver, and 
rushed frantically along the roadway. As he passed through 
the shed that stood between the street and the water-front he 
beheld the great steamer pushing out into the channel, and 
already a hundred feet from the shore. 

He stood impotently on the dock and watched the steamer 
making her way into the middle of the river, and he tried to 
scan the faces of the passengers at her rail to pick out Mary. 

And just then he heard his name called, and turning around 
he saw his chauffeur, wearing a troubled face. 

“I’m very sorry, Dr. Partridge,” said he, “but we missed 
the boat.” 

“What!” yelled Partridge, in a tone which the chauffeur 
falsely translated into rage. 

“Yes, sir. In turning a corner—going pretty fast, I admit, 
sir—we skidded against the curb and broke the rear wheel, 

356 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


357 


and by the time I could get the lady out, and the trunk, and 
find a taxi—well, sir, you know it couldn’t be helped, and we 
got here just now, and there’s the boat out there in the river. 
Do you think we might put the lady on with a tug, sir?” 

“No, Carter—a tug won’t do it. If we’ve missed her, we’ve 
missed her. Where is Miss Ballantyne?” 

“Still in the taxi, sir—just inside the shed. She saw the 
boat pulling away as we reached the dock, and she didn’t 
get out.” 

“Well, Carter—here’s ten dollars for you.” 

“Oh, thank you, sir. I don’t understand—but thank 
you, sir.” 

“Take me to Miss Ballantyne.” 

“Yes, sir, certainly, sir.” 

When they reached the taxicab, Partridge ordered Carter to 
take that car with the trunk to the hotel and then to look 
after the broken automobile. 

“Mary,” he said, “you will have to get out. You and I will 
take another car.” 

She obeyed him, and they were soon in another taxicab. 

He held her hand in his, but neither of them spoke until 
they had once more arrived at his office. Entering the room 
together, Partridge closed the door. As she looked up at him, 
she wondered what could have happened to make such a change 
in his bearing—for in spite of his suppressed excitement, there 
was an air of mastery and authority about him which she had 
never seen before. 

He seized her in his arms. He kissed her hair, her eyes, 
her cheeks, and then her mouth, and held her for a long 
moment against his heart. 

“Mary—Mary—my love, my darling! Five minutes after 
you left, I learned that Mazie is dead.” 

She threw her arms around his neck, and pressed her face 
against his. 


358 


FLAMES OF FAITH 


“Oh, John—dear-!” 

He pushed her head back so that he might look into her 
eyes. 

“Do you know, Mary,” he said, “in those dark nights in 
Africa, when we were surrounded by evil men, and you were 
sleeping on the cushions so closely beside me—Mary, do you 
know—volcanoes were raging within me?” 

She laughed. 

“And do you know,” she answered, “that volcanoes were 
raging—within me—too!” 

He kissed her again, and said: 

“Mary—my life is a pilgrimage—and I have arrived at 
Paradise.” 


THE END 











































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